


The Movement of Bees

by eohippus



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Brothers, Canon-Typical Violence, Cocaine, Drama, Drug Addiction, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Trauma, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other, Post Reichenbach, Psychological Trauma, Sherlock's Violin, Smoking, media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-13 20:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 82,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eohippus/pseuds/eohippus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns, broken. His brother has lost all faith in him, as has John. How will they bring down Moran with even more difficulties waiting in the background? Post-RB, post-Hiatus (sequel to "The Plan")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Swarming

* * *

It´s a code, a matter of life and death. It must be for its frantic rhythm, a drumming symphony to the theme of pain, a pain clawing at his chest, receding and swelling in a steady pattern. He chokes for air but gets none. Only the beating persists. Strange how unaffected his mind still is, conjuring up images of London, of John, of bees in an orchard, an old, friendly gentleman explaining to him why they dance.  
  
The warmth of this cherished memory is blacked out by the unearthly cold of space, of the barren void outside the Milky Way, and finally there is nothing.

* * *

Sherlock is talking about his latest case – something about a swimmer who went after one of his fellow competitors – and John is listening, posing a question now and again, voicing his opinion when asked.  
  
They are sitting in the lawn, next to a traditional Sussex cottage, the sea an endless field of sparkling silver, rays of sunlight pointing out the way to the otherworld. In a nearby tree, bees are humming, a swarm settling into its branches. The mass of moving insects following their queen is a reassuring sight and the humming a calm and steady accompaniment to the low rumbling of Sherlock´s voice.  
  
Just as the detective resumes his speech after a moment of consideration, the swarm engulfs his features, swallowing him up, adding a million tiny movements to his own. John gapes, awestruck by the transformation of his friend into a mythical being formed by a million tiny bodies and strains his ears to comprehend what the bee man wants to tell him.

The deep, humming noise is asking an urgent question, and finally John finds a pattern in the sounds and himself confronted by the man´s inquiry. "How to survive the fall, John?" he demands and draws nearer, but as John swats the first bee away, the humming gets louder and angrier and a finger of the bee-human lashes out towards the doctor, nearly touching him.  
  
With a start, John wakes. The television is still on and the first thing he hears are the words: "How he jumps." Definitely not a sentence John needs to fire his imagination with images of the day at St. Bart´s, and he grabs for the remote to end this silly display of god-knows-what-stupidity, when the camera changes its angle to a man on a rooftop who cheerfully greets a large group of bystanders.  
  
"David Copperfield is all set for his deadly jump," the presenter announces. "How will he survive?" John is wide awake now, the taxing night shift in the hospital completely erased from his conscious mind. He watches, transfixed, as the magician jumps, as he falls, and as he finally shakes hands with the commentator, who has met him on the pavement for a statement.  
  
"Now, please explain to our viewers how this trick works,” the TV-man says, but all John hears are Sherlock´s last words: "It´s a trick, it´s a magic trick." For the life of him, John can´t tell why he is happy and sad at once, and for the first time in twenty-two months, he buries his face in his hands and cries.

* * *

 

In the center of Great Britain´s capital city, a bee is a rare sight. That this specific insect has chosen to land on a file about the promising economic contacts between England and Dubai is even more of a miracle. The man who was just about to reach out for this particular file has stopped in mid-movement, and ponders the worker bee, fingers steepled under his chin, thinking of his brother. The younger one has maintained a keen interest in these insects ever since their French great-grandfather took him to the hives to show him why they dance.  
  
The man with an insignificant position in the government sighs. He is worried. In fact, he worries constantly. Not about his professional deeds or political affairs. No, he is pretty sure that everything is safe and sound there. What ails him is the only and most important factor of disturbance he has ever known: his younger brother.  
  
Mycroft Holmes would never have thought his brother would ever be able to give him more cause to worry than he has with his bygone addiction. But the last twenty-two months have taught him a different lesson since Sherlock was forced to stage his suicide to save his friends from Moriarty´s snipers and fled the country. He has taken on a fake identity to destroy Moriarty´s financial network. He went into hiding. And, on return to London, he vanished. Mycroft has lost track of him for four months by now, and the elder Holmes finds himself beginning to wonder whether he will ever see him alive again.

His mobile beeps. Anthea. He couldn´t think of a more reliable assistant. She would not intrude if she hadn´t important news to impart. With a sigh, he picks up.  
  
"Sir? Detective Inspector Lestrade called. He needs you – for a case of identification."  
  
Her voice is unusually careful, as if she fears he might break into one of his very rare fits when he learns more.

"Yes, dear?" he invites.  
  
Anthea takes a long breath. "The police has found an overdosed junkie in Hyde Park. The man had no identification on him. As he bears a striking resemblance to your brother, the Detective Inspector would appreciate if you could prove that it is not him. It´s merely a formality, he says. And he sends his apologies." She takes another breath. "Sir? It sounds ridiculous enough, but it´s standard procedure, Lestrade said."

"Very well, Anthea," Mycroft says. "Where is he now?"  
  
He hardly listens as she tells him the name of the hospital and he is hardly aware of ordering his car to be ready within the next five minutes. His gaze trails the bee crawling down the spine of the file and flying out of the window into the February fog. Odd, anyway, a bee in winter.  
  
He shakes himself out of his reverie and retrieves his coat from one of the wardrobes. Four months of worrying might be ended. More months of worrying might be yet to come.


	2. Back in the Hive

Detective Inspector Lestrade is a policeman with all his heart but at times he just hates his job. He hated to drive a broken Dr. John Watson back to Baker Street when the consulting detective jumped to his death, and he hates to be forced by standard procedure to invite his elder brother to the sickbed of an unknown individual who drugged himself into oblivion and just happens to resemble a certain Sherlock Holmes. Thankfully, Mycroft has reacted professionally and promised his support instead of throwing a fit, so they might be done and over it in mere minutes.  
  
Greg stirs as the steady tap of an umbrella tip is approaching and gets up from the uncomfortable bench he has been sitting on, hands in the pants of his pockets, unease creasing his forehead in spite of his attempt to appear unaffected.  
  
The elder Holmes has finally reached him, his hand gripping the umbrella handle tightly, knuckles white, his eyes an unreadable dark shape of blue. He saves both of them the preambles.  
  
"Where is he?" he asks, and Lestrade points towards the door of the ICU room. "In here," he says. "Bloke´s in pretty bad shape. His heart stopped due to an overdose of speedball and the withdrawal symptoms don´t help the treatment. " An unreadable expression on Mycroft´s features prompts him to add: "The doctors have voiced hope he´ll make it, though."  
  
As if he has waited for just this tiny bit of information, Mycroft nods and reaches out to open the door swiftly and silently. Lestrade notices the faintest tremor in the politician´s hand, a sight he would never have expected to see, but he´s sympathizing enough with the other man to not comment.  
  
The room is darkened and cool and the hums and beeps of the equipment along with the patient´s breathing the only sound. Both men regard the bony features and bruised face of the pale human who is currently drifting in an altered form of earthly existence. Both are keeping their silence and Greg, who is used to consider any evidence in the expression of offenders while interrogating them notices how pity, regret and annoyance wash over Mycroft´s face. Greg waits for his statement, but even after several minutes it hasn´t come.  
  
Instead, the patient unexpectedly stirs. His eyes focus slowly on his surrounding, then his gaze meets Lestrade´s before it travels, slowly, to Mycroft´s. The stranger´s eyes light up and his mouth twitches in the weak attempt of a smile. Then they close again and Greg finds himself confronted with a very firm Mycroft Holmes.  
  
"This is no longer your duty,” he says. "I will take this man to one of our military facilities."  
  
No way, Greg thinks, why should Mycroft Holmes adopt a stranger the police found on the street? Unless this man is no stranger. Realization hits him, hard. "You are not saying…" he starts, but Mycroft cuts him short with a raised hand.  
  
"I don´t say anything. This man needs to be transferred to a safe place. According to his identity, it will stay secret. I will notify you of his progress in due course. Until then, I must ask you to remain silent about this incident."  
  
Greg nods, grinding his teeth. There are too many questions he wants to ask now, in fact he is desperate to shout and probably smash something, but he manages to keep up his professional mask. "As you wish, Mr. Holmes. As long as you will explain everything later."  
  
"I will," Mycroft assures him. "I certainly will."

* * *

 

Funny, thinks John, the ways one copes with the death of a loved one. The less he grieves Sherlock´s death, the stranger his dreams have become. He doesn´t get furious any more whenever he sees a teenager wearing a skull print. And he is able to tell the odd posters shouting at him "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" to piss off instead of barely resisting the urge to rip them from the walls. Moreover, he has successfully deleted the memory of Mycroft Holmes´ annoying presence in his life from his mind the minute he deleted the man´s number. Until this morning, that is, when he saw the odd combination of dials he remembers so very well appear on his mobile´s display and finally decided to read the five succeeding texts which told him to come to the Diogenes Club at short notice. Now he´s sitting in the same chair he sat in when he first heard of Mycroft´s betrayal, of selling out Sherlock to Moriarty, and he is just as furious.  
  
"I called you on a matter of importance," Mycroft says and his off-handed tone makes John ball his fists.  
  
"What´s that supposed to mean? Are you going to call me in to your special forces?" John asks angrily. Honestly, the elder Holmes can be infuriating – he shouldn´t have followed his call, he should have just stayed at home and go for a walk or do the dishes – well anywhere else would be more pleasant than being at Mycroft´s office right now.  
  
"It´s about Sherlock," the British Government states, fingers steepled in a gesture very reminiscent of his brother.  
  
"I´d rather be back home now instead of listening to you "matters of importance", whatever they are,” John rattles away, only to stop dead all of a sudden. "What did you just say?"  
  
Mycroft cocks an eyebrow and places his hands flat on his desk. "It´s about Sherlock", he repeats.  
  
John is taken aback. He doesn´t want to talk about Sherlock. He´d actually prefer any matter of state security or any other topic to news of any sort about his best friend who´s been buried for twenty-two months by now. He just doesn´t want to know.  
  
"Oh yes, you do want to know this," Mycroft states.  
  
How in hell did he deduce my train of thoughts, John thinks, but then again his grief and denial have been quite obvious to anyone who knows him and it shouldn´t really surprise him that a Holmes can read him like a book.  
  
"You certainly do", Mycroft repeats. "Especially the fact that my dear brother is alive."  
  
John blinks. "Alive? Are you kidding? Why are you telling me such nonsense?" Despite of himself he feels a spark of hope building up in his chest, but he tries his best to quell it.  
  
"Because it is true, Dr. Watson. Alive, but barely. He has been found in Hyde Park, an overdose of speedball in his veins. It was a close call."  
John feels confusion, anger and joy overwhelming him, but still he fails to comprehend.  
  
The elder Holmes notices his muddled state and leans nearer, his eyes clouded with pity and regret. "I must ask you to accompany me to one of our military hospitals in Dorset."  
  
John sits back, arms folded on his chest. "And what makes you believe I had any interest in going there?" he asks, sharply.  
  
Mycroft sighs and leans a little bit closer. "Because my brother needs you, Dr. Watson. He needs to acknowledge that he´s happily dwindled into his old habits again. But he won´t talk to me or a psychiatrist. I do assume he´s more inclined to talk to you."  
  
"I just bloody hope you are right in your assumption he would accept help from me,” John shoots back. "He abandoned me quite solidly to serve whatever his purpose was with his stunt, you know."  
  
"I know you are hurting, John,” Mycroft answers and John is nearly sick listening to his condescending statement. "So is he."  
  
"I bet," the doctor says. "Well, I can´t refuse your order, can I?"  
  
"Yes, you can," the elder Holmes answers. "But I know you won´t."  
  
Half an hour later, John finds himself back again in a sleek, black Jaguar, travelling out of the city.


	3. Angry Humming

Fire. A cigarette provides a tiny smoldering fire, a small spot of comfort. He needs to feel some comfort in these dire surroundings. Rehab – how he hates this word and all that comes with it. Technically, Moran has won. When he was lucid, the doctors told him that his heart stopped and he had been dead for two minutes. They asked questions. He couldn´t even tell them what substances he had been using. They needed tests to find out.  
  
Mycroft should have been become suspicious by then, but his brother is still convinced that Moran fled the country two months ago. He hasn´t believed a word of Sherlock´s tale of abduction and forced use, remaining cold and detached and expressing his disappointment with his brother´s improper behavior not only in words, but in the smallest gestures. He is not going to waste any energy on trying to convince Mycroft of the truth. He can´t afford it. All his energy is wasted on withdrawal. Medication brings some relief, but only to his body. His aggrieved synapses are still working in vicious circles, demanding an escape, demanding neglect.  
  
God, how much he needs a hit. And how much he loathes himself for that thought. The tiny glowing spot of ruby is a beacon for his sanity. It diverts him from the shallow waters of need, at least for a short while. So he smokes. It is a better alternative. And the only recreation he is allowed in here anyway.  
  
His thoughts travel to John. He wonders if Mycroft has already summoned the army doctor to his rescue. He wants nobody to rescue him; he is the only one who can tug himself out of this. He stopped believing that involving other human beings in his affairs would do any good the moment he stepped off the ledge, months ago. The thing is, he is no longer too confident in his own ability to sustain. He didn´t succeed with Moran, didn´t he? Dying is losing, after all. He wishes it all had ended there and then. It if had, he at least would not feel so at sea now.

* * *

Mycroft leads John through a gloomy corridor and opens the door to one of the rooms. It´s much nicer than any hospital room, John notices, with two comfortable chairs and a sofa in one corner, and the walls painted in bright red and white. A large window faces a lawn and there´s a bench outside, lighted by the rays of the early March sun shining through the still barren branches of a huge willow tree nearby.  
  
A man sits there, tall and lean, features sharp and angular. His dark hair is cropped short, black curls reflecting the sunlight like the feathers of a raven. His eyes are closed and he´s exhaling smoke. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he breathes out, his face turned up to the sun to consume its warmth. He is slightly tanned and very thin under his jeans and cashmere jumper and his pallid face and the slight tremor in his hand indicate that he´s not healthy. When he brings the cigarette up to his lips again, his hand is shaking visibly. As the doctor and the elder Holmes appear, he doesn´t open his eyes but cocks his head, listening intently. Again he exhales, slowly, before he turns and his blue eyes bore straight into John´s.  
  
"John," he says, and the doctor gapes back in awe, for the intent blue gaze really is Sherlock´s and this voice is exactly the same which has called out to him "could be dangerous" every so often, the one which bade him goodbye from the rooftop of St. Bart´s on that miserable day in London nearly two years ago.

"It´s really you…" John gasps. Up to this moment, he didn´t dare to believe what Mycroft had told him. Now that he sees the truth, he is suddenly frightened of the miracle he once prayed for. Grief is threatening to tear him apart again, mingled with angst and hope and joy. Then all his feelings suddenly melt into fury, into white-hot rage, and John turns in one quick movement and places a well-placed and very deliberate punch on Mycroft´s chin.

"You knew it all along, you did! How could you leave me in the dark, how could you not tell me, how could you leave me so shattered?" he cries, tears welling up, and he doesn´t know which of the two brothers he is actually addressing.

Mycroft, holding his face, glares back at him and does not dare to advance, while Sherlock butts out his cigarette, wearily watching John´s outburst. John still feels the urge to punch his friend, but he has already taken in the bandage on Sherlock´s hand and his bruised face. Instead of advancing on him, the doctor steps up to the bench and sits down beside the detective, his eyes never leaving the younger man´s features. He doesn´t notice Mycroft leaving ever so quietly.

Several minutes pass in silence, the only movement the billowing of smoke and the rustle of birds in the willow tree.  
  
"You smoke," John says at last, arms folded.

"Obviously," Sherlock answers.

John sighs and buries his face in his hands. "I can´t decide whether to punch you or to hug you," he says.

"You´ve just punched Mycroft. That would leave the hug for me," Sherlock replies with the tiniest of smiles.

"God Sherlock, I saw you die! Do you have the slightest idea what I´ve gone through? And now you´re here and I simply don´t know what to say… Shit, I´ve been debating with you, I´ve even been pleading that you should stop being dead. I thought I would lose it, Sherlock. And now you´re here, just like that, and you´re alive…" John´s voice trails off. "I shouldn´t just punch you, I should beat the hell out of you," he ends. "But I wouldn´t punch any patient of mine."

Sherlock freezes, sending him a questioning look. John breathes in heavily, his left hand shaking slightly. "Mycroft wanted my professional opinion on your… condition. I can give him that much. But don´t expect me to be ecstatic about your resurrection," he says.

"My condition, certainly," Sherlock spits, eyes closed. "Surely my condescending brother has given you all the details."

John nods, curtly. "He understands perfectly that living in hiding and taking on fake identities to pursue Moriarty´s men has taken its toll on your mental stability. He wants to give you all the help you can get. And he feels he has failed you, he´s feeling guilty."

Sherlock butts his cigarette out with more force than necessary. "Oh, and you have mutated into his little lap-dog who he sends to appease my oh-so-agitated junkie mind?" he snarls sarcastically. "My brother should feel guilty for not listening to me, rather than for not watching me. Tell him that. And thank you very much for your help, but I don´t need a second medical opinion. I´m just detoxing, having fun."

John, not flustered by Sherlock´s outburst, reaches out to grab his friend´s wrist. "Don´t worry, I just need your vitals, then I´ll be gladly off."

But Sherlock yanks his hand back immediately. "Don´t you dare take sides with Mycroft," he spits. "Don´t you dare touch me."

Both men stare at each other, the doctor furious, the consulting detective scared and desperate. John remembers Sherlock in the aftermath of detox, but never before has his friend lashed out on him so viciously. It takes him some effort not to shoot back a burning remark which would certainly not contribute to soothing the detective´s aggravated mood.

Of course Sherlock notices his thoughts. "Oh, and please do spare me your pity," he snarls. "And spare me your whining about how you were affected by my death, too. You have been moving on, just as I estimated. If I hadn´t been resuscitated two weeks ago, you would never have known. Go find a nice assignment with Mycroft and leave me in peace."

"I definitely will," John says. "And don´t think for a second I need an explanation for what you did. I don´t think any reason is good enough. I´m done with trailing you on any of your crazy chases or 'guiding your light'. How could I, anyway, with this 'minor intellect' of mine?”

Sherlock has lit another cigarette and taken a drag. He nods. "As you wish, my dear doctor," he says, his word dripping with sarcasm. He is starting to add something, when the two of them are interrupted.

"Mr. Holmes? Sorry to disturb you, but it´s time for your medication." John turns on hearing a female voice, while Sherlock stops dead. A young woman approaches. She is slender, her brown hair is held back in a ponytail, and her blue eyes are lighted by a beautiful warm smile.

"I didn´t know you had a visitor."

Sherlock nods. "Neither did I," he says. "This is Dr. John Watson. John, this is Dr. Mary Morstan, my handler."

His last remark doesn´t come out scathing, it is rather a statement of the obvious, John realizes. Mary doesn´t flinch a bit; she only continues smiling warmly at his detective friend.

"Sure you need one. If I care to remind you what yesterday…"

"Don´t", Sherlock cuts her short, extending a hand, his features hardening. Then he releases a breath. "Please."

John actually gasps. Never has he seen Sherlock so defeated yet still in considerably good humour. If he hadn´t just met this Dr. Morstan, he would have assumed she was a close friend.

"So, probably today we´ll get along better?" she asks lightly, and immediately John senses Sherlock tense. The tall man stares his personal doctor down, frowning.

"I am afraid there will be no time for this, as I am going to see my brother," he says.

Dr. Morstan shakes her head. "And I am afraid you will visit him later. Remember you promised me not to back off again?"

It is only now John realizes that how wound up his friend has become in the past minutes. He is actually shaking slightly, the tremor in his hands intensifying. John is reminded of Sherlock´s panic attack at Dartmoor, and he knows that his distress is caused by dread, the cause of which John cannot fathom. Finally, Sherlock sighs and leans back, deliberately keeping his breathing even. Dr. Morstan – Mary, John thinks, taking in the sight of her features and the smile which has not vanished from her face – draws nearer.

"Nothing to be afraid of. This should help you through the night," she soothes, withdrawing a needle from her medical kit. Sherlock, who has bared his left arm, nods curtly, eyes tightly shut.

"So this is John?" Mary asks. "Your blogger? I am happy to meet you, Dr. Watson. Sherlock wouldn´t allow anyone else to stay, I think."

Only now does John realize that she has already removed the needle from Sherlock´s arm, pushing down some gauze to quell the blood. "Swift," he thinks. "Professional."

"Well, we´re getting there. This was much better." She enwraps Sherlock in this unbelievable smile again, and John feels his heart warming and himself smiling back at this incredible women who has so obviously gained Sherlock´s trust, and who is capable of enlacing him in a cosy, warm bubble John has long forgotten existed. He clears his throat.

"Dr. John Watson. Nice to meet you." This is much too formal an introduction, but for some reason he feels awkward and clumsy next to this sensitive human being.

"You too," she replies, tucking away her medical stuff. "If you don´t mind, doctor, you could accompany me to my office and I will fill you in on the condition of my patient – if he allows."

She is looking at Sherlock, who looks John in the eyes. "I do, Dr. Morstan. In fact, he needs to learn why he´s redundant. Please leave – both of you."

Fuming, John follows his order, rattled by the signs of fatigue and strain in his friend´s face, despite his anger. He pushes aside his concern, anger winning the better of him, desperately wishing he had not ever answered Mycroft´s call.


	4. Hat and Veil

"He absolutely loathes these injections," Mary says when they are alone in her office.

"I noticed," John replies, dryly, not wanting his concern to be detectable. "He panicked."

Mary arranges several folders on her desk, deep in thought. "When he was on the ICU, he needed to be restrained because he furiously tried to get free. His reaction was way beyond what one would expect from a drug addict. He claimed later that he had been abducted and been forced into using, hence his panic attacks. We consider his story a product of his deluded state due to the high quantity of chemical substances we found in his bloodstream."

John, who remembers all too clearly the composed attitude Sherlock used to make such a high effort at maintaining, and which collapsed only under the influence of the Baskerville drug, isn´t quite willing to buy Mary´s report. "And they were?" he asks.

"Mainly cocaine and heroin," Mary answers. "Some morphine, too. As you might be aware, the simultaneous consumption of stimulants and depressants can lead to paranoid delusions, as well as hallucinations and severe depression. Our psychologist assumes Mr. Holmes has been and still is relating memories of his professional experience with his innermost fears to sanctify his relapse. Mycroft Holmes agrees with her theory. He has appointed me to his brother´s treatment, though, after he reduced the poor woman nearly to tears."

Mary falters and looks John in the eyes. "We agreed to treat the physical symptoms first. Mycroft Holmes voiced his hope that you would be able to talk to his brother. That´s fine with me. What I disagree with is that he asked you for a second medical opinion."

John can´t help but wonder how much Mary´s face has changed from her former sunny and inviting demeanor to a mask hardened by the intent to demonstrate her point. He muses that she must have had some run-ins with colleagues who challenged her in her expertise in the past and that she has learned to stand her ground the hard way. Certainly a trait she needs if she works for Mycroft, John thinks, and the thought makes him smile.

Mary´s eyebrows twitch and she reaches out for one of the files. "I don´t mind whether you have known the Holmes brothers longer than I have, but I will not allow anybody to meddle with my methods and jeopardize my patient´s healing process," she states firmly.

John´s smile widens at that and he relishes the look of confusion on her face. "This is exactly what I would say if I were in your place, Dr. Morstan," he replies. "Look, I didn´t came here to advance my medical career. I came here, because…" he stops, suddenly unable to finish his sentence.

"Because you are Sherlock´s friend," Mary says.

John shakes his head. "We were once. Sherlock made it clear, repeatedly, that he does not return interest in friendship with anyone. I was mistaken to infer otherwise. I only came because I was curious. Mycroft seemed to hope his brother might find my company soothing. Obviously, that is not the case."

"But you two talked."

"There´s nothing to talk about," John replies angrily. "He used me for his purpose. Never for a second did I count, it was all the game for him. I doubt he ever considered me a friend. I doubt he is even able to grasp the concept of friendship."

He closes his eyes, hoping she doesn't notice the tears trying to well up and embarrass him. He knows his words don't match his heart. Nothing he told her is false, but it isn't quite true, either. Still, the image of Sherlock helping him out of the Semtex vest at the pool appears in his mind, as does a very fleeting image of Sherlock playing the violin on Christmas Eve. He must know better than to outright deny their friendship ever existed, but he is still raw and hurting, and all he wants is to be left in peace. He longs for a Sherlock-void state which supports neither good nor bad memories, since he does not ever want to be left that broken again.

John notices that Mary is looking at him intensely and he wonders what he has given away in mere seconds. He steps towards her desk, one hand leaning on the wooden surface.

"Whatever your treatment will consist of, Dr. Morstan, I am quite happy not to be involved. I shall go back to London tomorrow morning. Good luck with your patient."

Mary just looks at him, still with exactly the same scrutinizing gaze, then shrugs and nods. "Good luck to you too, Dr. Watson. I hope you are taking the right decision."

She turns towards the door and opens it for him and he steps through with all the dignity he can muster in his still persisting rage and frustration. When he walks down the corridor, he wonders why he can still feel her gaze on his neck and why he can´t get rid of the image of her honest, blue eyes.

* * *

Snow falls out of a cloudless sky and a cold wind billows his coat as he stands on the rooftop. Moriarty holds his wrist in a dead grasp, smiling viciously, ripping his sleeve off and tracking the crook of his elbow with his index finger, leaving a red trail of dots wherever he touches. In horror, he watches as his veins turn a bright green and his eardrums threaten to burst with his enemy´s laughter. His heart races and his vision blurs, the tiny red dots now dancing menacingly beneath his eyelids. Suddenly, they settle on John´s face, and John nods at him, curtly, confirming that he has his approval to make use of the Browning he clasps tightly. Moriarty cranes his neck, evaluating him, and smiles triumphantly.

The red dots disappear, and he hears the criminal whisper in his ear: "Johnny-boy is not your friend anyway, sexy, because you are a traitor, a fraud." This is when he jumps, the seconds of his flight stretching indefinitely. A huge snowflake catches and carries him to the ground where he lands, shivering and shaking, unable to move a limb, his heart beating frantically.

Sherlock wakes and remembers only the snow and John´s face and he groans for he is actually shaking and why is it so fucking cold in here and when will the tremors in his legs finally stop? To go back to sleep in the state he´s in is nearly impossible, so he grabs his cigarettes from the nightstand and lights one.

He regrets his harsh words and damns his stubbornness and sarcasm of earlier. John deserves an apology and an explanation. But as soon as he saw that Mycroft was right in his assumption that John wouldn´t easily forgive him, he felt diminished. He has been foolish enough to allow sentiment in secretly hoping that John would be as glad to see him as he was to meet John. No, he will not let his mask slip; he would rather stay detached than allow his brother the satisfaction of knowing that he erred due to emotion.

He leans back, blowing the smoke out languidly to calm his demanding brain, and closes his eyes. The realization that regaining John´s trust will be hard if not outright impossible hits him. He chuckles sarcastically at the thought of how effectively he has destroyed what John has given him from the first second they met – his trust.

He wonders whether he ever deserved it in the first place.

* * *

John is sleeping soundly in the knowledge that he will be back home soon. He is used to sleeping in foreign places and adapts very easily to any surrounding. Thus, he doesn´t wake when the vivid dream of the bee-man reappears.

Tonight, the bee-man approaches him carefully and his humming has taken up a sad rather than an angry note. John can´t quite figure out what the creature wants to transmit. He just watches in horror, as the bees, one after the other, stop in their movements, helplessly tumbling onto the ground, piling up in an unidentifiable mass of inanimate bodies.

John closes his eyes, for every dying bee glows with the light of the brightest honey, blinding him. When he dares to peek through half-closed eyelids again, he sees that the heap of insects has changed into one of tiny, glistening needles.

The bee-man´s voice is calling him again, and he finally comprehends. The creature is repeating a single word in a sad rhythm. It´s his own name, called out in desperation by a former friend.


	5. Poisoned Honey

Dawn creeps through the shutters of the rooms of three men whose lives are closely connected.

The youngest, dark-haired one has hardly slept. He is planning his return to the living.

The elder blonde one wakes up with the relieving knowledge that he will leave the premises soon, cutting all connections to the other two. He douses the spark of guilt which kindles in his heart upon this feeling of relief. And he tries to obliterate the image of a young female fellow doctor from his mind.

The third, the eldest of the three, has slept soundly for only a few hours, staying up late to work on pressing matters of state security and foreign politics. He is quite content that he will keep the upper hand in the battle of willpower with his brother.

In a fourth room, a young doctor and addiction specialist stirs in her bed. She thinks of her eccentric patient and questions herself for the umpteenth time in one week whether the psychologist´s diagnosis was correct, after all; that her patient is suffering from paranoia, for he seems adamant to stick to his explanation of why he took a highly dangerous mix of cocaine, heroin and morphine. And her thoughts fly unexpectedly out to a blonde doctor who flatly denied his friendship with her patient, and she idly wonders whether she will see him again.

* * *

Sherlock has been awake for a long time, practising the fingering of a Bach sonata, when Dr. Mary Morstan knocks at his door. He can´t be bothered to interrupt his state of concentration, even more so because it has been hard enough for him to maintain his routine of retreating to his mind palace ever since he was released from the ICU one and a half week ago.

Mary lets herself in, as he knew she would, her familiar bright smile meeting his intensive sea-blue gaze. "Oh, if I´d known you were trying to concentrate on your music, I would have come back later," she says.

"Never mind," he answers, stopping his movements and leaning back on his bed. "It´s a weak substitute for playing the violin, anyway."

"You miss it," she states, and he nods. "I haven´t played for nearly two years now. It´s high time to pick it up again."

Mary smiles while she retrieves her medical equipment. "Surely it is. How was your sleep?"

Sherlock sends her a guarded look and she notices his hesitation.

"Acceptable," he answers, clenching a nearly empty cigarette package in his right hand.

"I see," Mary replies, and starts to check his vitals. "I guess we can´t expect the withdrawal symptoms to simply disappear into thin air since there are still traces of the drugs in your bloodstream. Detox will take another day or two."

Sherlock smiles, sadly, at her words. "I remember you telling me the same thing five years ago. Surely you recall that being patient is not one of my greatest virtues."

"I do," she acknowledges. "And I recall you being a very resistant patient who claimed not to need any treatment and demanded to be released immediately. All the authority of your brother was needed to make you stay."

She turns and retrieves a needle from her medical kit while she speaks, and instantly feels Sherlock´s gaze locking on her hands. The rustle of a crumpling cigarette package is clearly audible. Mary turns, advancing on him with a reassuring smile. "You know, I was wondering whether there is more to your anxiety towards injections," she says lightly. "Perhaps you actually did feel forced into using by somebody."

Sherlock, who has closed his eyes briefly to avoid watching yet another needle enter his vein, smirks. "In this case you would be the only one who believed me about Moran. Contradicting Mycroft without presenting any evidence would be self-destructive, though," he warns.

Mary presses some gauze down on the puncture. "You could talk to Dr. John Watson," she suggests. "He seems to be a reasonably good listener."

Sherlock snorts. "He made it very clear yesterday that he would no longer listen to me. No, I need to convince Mycroft."

"What of?" Mary asks.

"Of my need to be released from this faculty and returned to my old life," Sherlock says. "It is urgent."

* * *

John has woken up early and been served a considerably good breakfast in his guest room by the hospital staff. He has passed down the hallway and stepped through the main entrance of the hospital, breathing in the early spring air, when a male voice calls out to him

"Dr. Watson? Please wait."

He turns and finds himself confronted with a nurse with an air of urgency. "Yes?"

"Mr. Holmes asked me to accompany you to his office, Sir. If you would please follow me?"

"I already ordered a taxi," John improvises. He knows that fleeing the elder Holmes brother is futile but he needs to at least try.

The male nurse regards the barren field and small byroad which stretches out opposite the hospital´s front. "I don´t think you will get a taxi here. But there will be a car ready for you later, if you wish. In the meantime, Mr. Holmes would be glad to talk to you."

John sighs. The prospect of being home soon and being able to forget all about Sherlock and his powerful brother has changed into the prospect of listening to yet more annoying revelations.

Reluctantly, he follows the nurse back into the building.

* * *

"Why won´t you believe me?" Sherlock´s accusing baritone is clearly audible through the closed door. The nurse pushes it open to let John in. The doctor stops in the doorways and notices that Mycroft has placed his ever-composed, three-piece suit-clad self in a comfortable armchair, fingers steepled under his chin. Sherlock faces his brother, withdrawn to the backrest of a similar chair, looking tired and pale, fingers drumming a frantic beat on the cushioned armrest.

"Why should I ever believe you concerning your addiction?" Mycroft answers, his tone scathing. "Just as I did when you told me you hadn´t overdosed deliberately? Or when you were firm that you experienced only a 'minor relapse'?" Never before has John heard Mycroft talking with so much venom. Every sentence slices the air like a whip lash and Sherlock actually winces under the accusations of his elder brother. But he is seething with rage, too, and every word adds to aggravating him even more.

"Besides," Mycroft continues, now with a less scathing note in his voice. "I remember very well I needed to confiscate the morphine painkillers when you returned from Delhi. And your last text message before you disappeared to the dark side of London read "Don´t try to reach me." You were making yourself very clear, dearest brother."

"I couldn´t allow you to interfere and put John in even more danger", Sherlock presses through clenched teeth. "And I am not going to repeat myself regarding what I told you of Moran."

Mycroft cocks an eyebrow. "Very well. At least you are no longer nurturing paranoia. That´s quite an improvement to your healing process."

It´s strange, John thinks, that he should be able to overhear the brothers quarreling again. John is still torn between annoyance and relief that his best friend just waltzed back into his life. Despite his silent vow to not to get involved with the Holmes´ affairs and much to his aggravation he finds himself worried that Sherlock is more affected by his addiction than the detective will openly acknowledge. He has witnessed his friend´s desperation several times but he has never seen him frail. But frail is what Sherlock appears to be, ready to crush under strain, ready to burn. As a medical man, John knows that most of this is due to withdrawal. What he finds himself to be concerned about is whether his former flatmate´s mind has actually suffered damage. Pondering these thoughts, he finally pushes the door shut.

Sherlock looks up as John clears his throat. A suppressed smile plays on the detective´s lips and John knows his friend´s joy is genuine. But the doctor is not willing to greet him kindly. Instead, he steps nearer, eyeing both brothers, feeling the cold flame of fury building up in his chest once again.

"Please, John." Mycroft points invitingly to a third armchair. "If you feel like punching me again, I would prefer you take it out on the trees outside." He gestures towards the vast windows. "While you make up your mind, I´d appreciate you taking a seat."

Sherlock, who has continued his frantic drumming, suddenly jumps up. "Do you agree with my terms, Mycroft?" he snarls. John, still standing, is suddenly confronted with the full height of his former flatmate.

"Your terms? How do you mean?" he asks involuntarily.

Furiously, Sherlock flings an accusing finger at his brother. "Mycroft still refuses to believe that Moran abducted me. He says he needs evidence." He emphasizes the last word with contempt. "He wants me to see a psychologist. But what would really help me is to get back to work." The detective runs his hand through his short black curls and John notices the slight tremor in his fingers.

Without hesitation, he quickly grabs hold of Sherlock´s wrist. This is not only agitation, this is frustration, too. They had enough arguments in the past about what Sherlock´s high-speeding mind needs to get distracted that John knows exactly when craving causes his friend´s distress.

"Sherlock. Calm down. What is it you want to do?" His tone is soft, that of a doctor talking to a patient. Sherlock is shooting daggers at him, trying to wring his hand free. After a minute of struggle he stops, though, sighs heavily and finally lets himself fall into the chair. He leans his head back, his fist resting on his lips, fingers twitching."I need to hunt Moran down. I am well enough to leave."

"And this is why your hands twitch, because you are well?" the elder Holmes asks sarcastically. "I would think recuperating from drug abuse takes more than just two weeks. Certainly you, with all your experience, do know that."

Sherlock tenses, his jaw clenched, but before he can jump out of his chair again John places a reassuring hand on his arm. "You two are not getting anywhere by continuing your siblings´ feud", he says. "Could you please fill me in?"

"My brother is still soundly affected by withdrawal depression. He is fixed on atonement," Mycroft states drily. "He feels guilty that he couldn´t protect you from Moran´s thugs."

John remembers being clubbed with iron bars by two attackers while visiting Sherlock´s grave. He remembers being in hospital due to head trauma and Mycroft arranging police protection for him, telling him that he had been assaulted by men who were working for Britain´s most influential drug lord. Mycroft voiced his suspicion, too, that Moran was the heir to Moriarty´s imperium. His question about how Sherlock knew of the attack is disrupted by another outburst from the younger man, who slams his fist down on the armrest, hard.

"For God´s sake, Mycroft." Sherlock jumps up and starts the same frantic pacing John remembers so vividly. "There´s nothing wrong with my state of mind. Could you just once refrain from reminding me of my current situation and observe?" He stands, fists clenched at his sides. "Moran left the country. He doesn´t know I´m alive. But he will when the newspapers don´t report my death as he expected. He will certainly return to England the minute the public celebrates the return of Sherlock Holmes. Do employ high security on Baker Street. Let your people follow me and John, and as soon as we have a hint of what he´s up to, we can forge a detailed plan."

Mycroft opens his mouth for a reply, but John stops him with a raised hand. "Please Mycroft, there are several issues I haven´t yet had the time to discuss with your brother – would you mind giving us some privacy?"

An amused smirk glides over Mycroft´s face as he nods. "Very well Doctor Watson. I will retreat as you requested – there is a first time for everything, after all."

He gets up, brushing past Sherlock, who has immersed himself deeply in his seat, eyes closed now, fingers under his chin. Mycroft hesitates when he passes his brother, his hand lingering over Sherlock´s shoulder. The younger man shoots him a dark glance, and the British government sighs.

"I dearly hope you can talk some sense into him," he addresses John, and leaves quietly.

* * *

With the elder Holmes gone, Sherlock pulls out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one. He exhales slowly, not looking at John, his hands still shaking. A long moment of silence passes between them. Then John shifts, trying to hold Sherlock´s gaze. "Talk. Please. Tell me what happened."

Sherlock ponders the cigarette dangling from his fingers. "Moriarty wanted me to die in disgrace. He had men trained on you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. They were to shoot you if I didn´t jump to my death. He shot himself to make it sure. My backup plan was good enough, but not safe. I survived and took on a new identity, hunting down the head of the financial network of Moriarty´s web. Then Mycroft sent me abroad because the web was getting suspicious. When I returned, I chased Moran. But he found me first and forced me to take cocaine and stronger substances. He intended to let me die from an overdose, making my death look like suicide, again."

John shakes his head. "Do you really think I can believe you after all your lies? Do you really think it is explanation enough that you played dead to ensure my safety? How could you ever leave me in the dark about your plans?"

Sherlock takes another draw, exhaling slowly. When he answers, his voice is nearly inaudible. "John, believe me, this was the hardest decision I was ever forced to take." He stops and stretches out his hand, regarding an ugly scar which extends over his lower forearm and wrist. "I have never been so scared in my life, John. I knew I would lose everything. I wasn´t even sure I would survive my jump. Or if the snipers could definitely be stopped. Forgive me, John. I failed. Moran is still out there - you are not safe." His voice is faltering. "Please stop denying our friendship. Stop denying you trust me," he ends in a very soft voice, not looking John in the eyes.

But the doctor acts as if he hasn´t heard his friend´s uncharacteristic plea. "Do you really think you have the authority to lecture me on denial?" he asks instead, scathingly.

Sherlock stares at him, unbelieving his face slowly turning into a mask of suppressed anger. "Yes, I think I do."

John is still fuming and relishes the chance to hurt his friend. "That´s thick coming from a supposed genius who´s constantly denying he has a drug problem."

"I don´t have a drug problem. I was forced into using. I was perfectly happy with staying clean," Sherlock snaps back. "I simulated being a junkie to be able to pursue Moran´s minor operatives and stayed clean. Moran threatened to shoot me if I didn´t inject."

John, bathing in the knowledge that he can hurt his former flatmate gravely with further accusations doesn´t relent. "I am perfectly sure you could resist temptation. I am perfectly sure you just simulated it," he spits back.

"John, why won´t you listen…"

"I was always listening to you, remember? But you never told me the truth of your plans about Moriarty. Do you really assume I´m still trusting you? No," he shakes his head. "You are too good an actor. You acted our friendship, didn´t you? You just needed me as an extra for your cunning plans."

I did, but I regretted it, Sherlock thinks, but he knows nothing he will say will change John´s opinion. It is true - he has lied multiple times to both John and Mycroft, and the knowledge that he lied for his own purposes stings. "Right, believe what you must," he mutters, defeatedly, and John sends him another scathing look.

"You´d better rethink your reasoning, Sherlock. You´d better accept that you are partly not yourself at the moment…"

"I haven´t been more myself during the last two years than now," the detective answers, serious. "It is high time I get back to work. I need you to support me, John. Please, will you do this for me?"

John freezes and Sherlock is immediately aware that he has used the worst of all phrases to appeal to his doctor friend. The image of John looking up to him standing on the rooftop of St. Bart´s clouds his vision and he catches his breath. He pales and watches in horror as John swallows hard, gets up and flees from the office.

Mycroft finds him ten minutes later, staring into the void of his mind palace, a tear trailing his face.


	6. Dancing Around

Sherlock emerges slowly and carefully from his inner world, opening his eyes, trying to grasp what has been conveyed between him and John. He knows the doctor´s words have been purposefully delivered to hurt, and knowing how stubborn John can be, he certainly can´t expect absolution soon.

He senses that he is no longer alone, and turns his head to find Mycroft has regained his seat in the opposite chair. His brother´s gaze is concerned, and it is only now that Sherlock notices the wet spots on his own cheek.

Embarrassed, he swallows and shifts to get up, but Mycroft stalls him with the tiniest twitch of his right eyebrow.

"John left," he says. "I told him to expect you back at Baker Street in a week."

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "Why?" he asks. Then he observes how intensely his brother grasps his armrest, his stiffened back and crossed legs. "You found evidence," he states matter-of-factly.

Mycroft stirs uncomfortably, but his gaze doesn´t flinch from Sherlock´s. "Our men raided one of Moran´s secret stores yesterday. It was situated in a disused quarry in Kent. They found ropes and a chair in one of the rooms. There were more than enough blood traces and syringes left to allow a DNA analysis. It matches yours." He leans back a little bit more, cocking his head. "You told the truth, after all."

Sherlock nods. He feels drained of all energy and bare of any wish to convey his deep disappointment in his brother´s earlier lack of trust.

"What did they do to you?" Mycroft asks, quietly. "From what my men found and some of the injuries treated while you were in hospital…"

Sherlock stares back at him, shaking his head slightly. "I can´t remember. I was high most of the time." He pauses, his eyes fixing a blind spot on the wall. "I was grateful that I was usually barely accessible when Moran´s men advanced on me." He poises his hands under his chin and faces his brother fully, his eyes an even darker, angrier shade of blue.

"You needed the evidence to be completely sure," he muses, and Mycroft answers with a curt nod. Both brothers know that Mycroft has overstepped an unspoken rule of their ongoing conflict with his skepticism. There had always been trust, even if they had a full-flung argument going, and they have never ever flatly refused to listen to each other.

"Accept it," Sherlock challenges his brother, studying him with one of his deducing gazes.

Mycroft´s mouth twitches. He cocks an eyebrow, faking lack of understanding. "Accept what?" he demands to know, his firm voice betraying his unease.

"That you couldn´t stand that I was right about the drugs. You were usually in the right. You have been for so long. Is it really so hard for you to acknowledge that I no longer need to be monitored by you to prevent self-destruction?"

The elder Holmes brother doesn´t stir, but Sherlock notices the spark of annoyance in his features. He senses that they have lost some of their understanding which has deepened over the last two years ever since they agreed to work hand in hand to track Moriarty down. One more point for Moran, succeeding in driving us apart, he thinks bitterly. He shudders at the memory of pleading with the criminal for the next hit, for relishing in the knowledge that the cocaine would allow him a tiny glimpse of freedom from his hopeless captivity. Four weeks was all it took to send him back into full-blown addiction and into deepest desperation. He was certain he would die.

Only now does it dawn on Mycroft what his younger brother may have experienced. Sherlock can see it in the slight wince of Mycroft´s cheek, in how his hands clasp the chair´s armrests even tighter. Certainly his sibling will want a statement later. If he is lucky, he will be able to avoid the most personal questions and continue to play along. It is crucial for him to step ahead, to stay strong for his next moves. "Did you already order an interrogation specialist?" he asks. Mycroft shifts, regaining his usual composed posture. "Yes, I did. Robson will be with us in the late afternoon."

Sherlock nods. The tiredness has intensified and he feels hardly able to keep his eyes open. Relief floods him, adding to his exhaustion. Robson is one of the older Secret Service men of Mycroft´s inner circle. Sherlock has met him on several occasions and come to accept the agent for his rare perception and wariness. Despite his cunning, Robson will be far easier to mislead than Mycroft would, for he has formed a firm trust in Sherlock, too. Except for one thing… "How about your special treatment?" he asks in a low voice.

His brother sits back again, folding his fingers under his chin. "It will not be needed. You are a key witness, not a suspect."

"Funny how fast people change, isn´t it?" Sherlock retorts, but his voice is lacking its usual sharpness. His brother answers with just another twitch of his eyebrow.

"Call me if you need me. I´m tired," Sherlock tells him, raises and walks to the door. Mycroft is quick enough to catch him in the doorway and the detective doesn´t protest when his brother follows him down the corridor, to the lift and all the way to his room. Only when he pushes the door open does he turn to look into the guilt-ridden eyes of his sibling.

"Sherlock, I…" Mycroft starts, but the younger man shakes his head.

"Don´t attempt to express your regret, Mycroft. I might get used to it."

When the door closes, the man with the minor position to the British government is still at a loss for an apology.

* * *

In London, John alights from the black Jaguar and steps up to the door of 221 Baker Street. A familiar voice calls out to him, but he is too deep in thought to notice the elderly lady who takes hold of his arm, greeting him with a friendly smile.

"There you are, John. You were gone for some time, and when you left so suddenly I was afraid you had bad news. Was that one of Mycroft´s cars?" Mrs. Hudson asks.

John wakes from his reverie and nods. "Yes, he wanted to talk to me," he says.

"But the two of you haven´t talked since Sherl…" she starts, then quickly clasps one hand over her mouth. "Oh, I´m so sorry!" Her gaze falls on John´s crumpled clothing and the doctor´s grey face, and her eyes widen.

"Good gracious, you look as if you´ve seen a ghost. You must be freezing. Come inside for tea," she exclaims, and John follows her up the five steps, through the front door and into her flat, thinking that yes, actually she is right, he has seen a ghost.

While he watches her putting the kettle on, he muses whether he should tell her of his strange encounter in a secret military hospital in Dorset. He already doubts that he has actually seen and talked to a living Sherlock. Nevertheless he is still shaken by his friend´s plea to not deny their friendship.

Shouldn´t he have listened more closely to Sherlock when he tried to explain about that fateful day? Hadn´t Sherlock already made it perfectly clear to him when he phoned him from the roof of St. Bart´s that it was all a trick? An illusion, staged to outwit Moriarty? Why has he never openly questioned whether his friend had really died when Sherlock´s last words had constantly baffled him?

Still immersed in his musings, John reaches out to grab the mug Mrs. Hudson is offering him, only to miss it by millimeters, and the porcelain shatters on the kitchen floor, a victim of gravity.

Shattered - that´s what they both are, he realizes.

"I´m sorry," he mutters absent-mindedly, and feels the tremor in his left hand returning.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson sighs and shushes him into one of her kitchen chairs. She wipes the floor dry and picks up the shards before she sits down opposite John and lays a reassuring hand on his wrist.

"You are shaking, love. Are you sure you are not coming down with a cold?"

John just sends her a blank look, and she feels his forehead with her left hand. "You´re probably okay," she reassures him, taking his still twitching hand into her own, patting it. "But you are ice cold. You are better off going to bed, young man."

"Right you are, Dr. Hudson," John replies, sending her a wan smile, and gets up.

When he reaches for the doorknob, she calls him back, handing him a small box of frozen food. "Chicken soup. Best remedy for all ailments, even for doctors," she says, pressing the package into his hands.

* * *

 Back up in 221B, John makes himself some tea. It is only when he bends over the kitchen table to pour the scolding water over the teabags that he notices there are two clean mugs sitting on it. He stares at them, realizing that he hasn´t retrieved two mugs from the cupboard for ages. The slightly larger blue one sparkles in the afternoon sun - sea blue, thinks John, the absorbing light aquamarine of a familiar inscrutable gaze - before he picks it up carefully to fling it against the fridge with force.

It shatters into pieces but John doesn´t see them; he sees a pale face, once dear to him, streamed with blood.

* * *

Alone in his room, Sherlock lets himself slump onto his bed. The sticky tiredness caused by the fading levels of cocaine in his blood thrusts down on him, but at the same time he is far too agitated to sleep. He could call Dr. Morstan, but he´s had enough of being doctored for one day, so he only draws the blanket tighter around his body, trying to retain some warmth.

His - their - rooms at Baker Street emerge in his imagination and he soon falls into a dream-like state where he sees himself standing at the window, playing his Stradivarius again while John types happily away on his blog. It feels as if a vicious sorcerer is determined to torture him with images of a happy, peaceful life which he knows for certain he can never get back to.

Grinding his teeth, Sherlock grabs the blanket tighter, trying to quell his black musings on how get a hit, how to get rid of his frustration, his desperate longing for home. He stays like this for a long time, never noticing the sun retreating from his window, leaving the willow tree outside in dark shadows.

Only when sleep claims him does his breath finally even out.

* * *

John stares at the blue shards of Sherlock´s mug. The shattered face he doesn´t ever want to remember has been replaced in his memory with his very alive detective friend, sitting in his favourite chair, gesticulating.

Another image shows him Sherlock moulding himself into the sofa, his face turned towards the wall after flatly refusing to talk about the solar system.

John finds himself wishing that these images weren´t figments of his memory. He finds himself wishing Sherlock was there, for real.


	7. Blackmail

Charles Augustus Milverton is a man with power. Not in the common sense of the word, as he is neither rich nor influential. But he possesses the rare talent to gather useful knowledge that was never intended to be displayed to the public. He retrieves it from the most unlikely resources, and presents it to those who desperately need to hide their mistakes from the scrutinizing eyes of their superiors, spouses, or the general public.

This is the power he gloats over: to see his victims squirm under the knowledge that their careers and reputations are doomed if they don´t comply with his demands. In most cases, he requests money, in some he asks for favours. He has witnessed even the most arrogant men falling to their knees and begging, the most influential celebrities faltering and shrinking before him, whimpering, pleading to keep his knowledge of their deeds secret.

Milverton´s gaze falls on his desk, on the picture of an impeccably dressed man entering Buckingham Palace with an air of undisturbed confidence. Idly, he thumbs through several documents and a file with medical reports on the man´s younger brother.

Milverton´s next victim will be far harder to tackle than any other before. But it will be crucial for the web to bring him down, for the man has succeeded in gravely hampering vast parts of the web during the last two years, pursuing his own personal crusade to take revenge for his brother´s death. Only his brother never died, as Milverton learned four months ago. This is a great advantage for his plans, he thinks. As soon as the return of the younger Holmes is announced, Milverton will be able to use the media´s attention for his own purposes. And the downfall of the man who unofficially runs the British Government will be so much easier to achieve if his actions can be connected to his brother and the public´s opinion turned against him with the help of the media.

Milverton smiles, for his plan is flawless, as usual. This time, he and the leading members of the organization are bound to win.

* * *

"My brother will move back into Baker Street next Monday." Mycroft´s voice is as confident as always. He sounds as if he has just asserted that the earth is an orb.

John, who has considered that nothing ever could aggravate him more than when Mycroft revealed to him that Sherlock was alive, couldn´t have been more clearly and utterly wrong. He balls his fists, cursing himself one more time that he picked up his mobile only to stop the persistent ringing of the past half hour. He had intended to tell Mycroft to not ever call again, but wasn´t swift enough.

"You can´t seriously think you can force me to take him back. Sure you can afford a little posh flat for your brother somewhere else in central London," he fumes.

Mycroft chuckles dryly. "Dear Dr. Watson. Do you really think I paid his half of the rent the past two years just for charity?"

"You paid because you were feeling obliged," John shoots back. "And you bloody well should be after selling your brother out to Moriarty like that."

To John´s bewilderment Mycroft laughs amusedly. "Oh, I forgot. Of course you must have thought that it was meant as payback for your pain. I dearly hope that your perception of my activities will change somewhat with the knowledge that Sherlock agreed to accept my help to hunt Moriarty down."

"Oh, you didn´t even feel obliged, then?" John´s voice has raised, and he is near shouting. "Your talent for compassion really runs in the family." He feels the desperate wish to strangle his caller. "Even if your brother were condescending enough to agree to take part in your game, don´t think for a second I will do the same and get involved in your manipulations."

Mycroft sighs. "Sherlock was intelligent enough to see that he stood not the slightest chance against Moriarty without my help. You are an intelligent man, too, John. Surely you understand that our best bet against Moran is to re-establish my brother in his role as the world´s only consulting detective as soon as possible, and get the attention of the media."

"Oh, is that so? Why, then, did he go out on his own to hunt the man all by himself?"

A short silence follows, and John has the eerie feeling that he can hear Mycroft think. But the elder Holmes has obviously only needed a second to collect himself to reveal something he isn´t too keen on revealing. "My brother is a very stubborn man," he answers. "I offered him my help, but he practically ran away."

Something that seems to happen rather frequently between the two of you, John thinks sarcastically. Nothing to ever worry about.

"John? I need you and Sherlock to appear together at Baker Street and face the public together. We need to paint as perfect a picture as we can."

"Count me out," John states firmly. He has no interest in ever getting involved in the Holmes-brothers´ affairs again.

"Are you firm on that? I assume you would rather move out, then?" Mycroft´s tone is scathing. "What a shame that it is fairly complicated to find a decent place to stay in central London that you can afford. Especially since you are currently not on a full working schedule and live on a reduced income as a result of the public´s perception of your involvement in the Richard Brook affair."

"What is that supposed to mean?" John asks.

"It means that unless you don´t want to stay somewhere in the suburbs or in a dull hotel room again, you´d better remain at Baker Street. As I told you several days ago, my brother needs you."

"Well, I definitely don´t need him,” John replies, barely containing his anger. “As I don´t need you interfering with my life."

"Oh, this is not interfering. I would never want you to end up in a dump. I would not want to risk your safety, too. With the media hype coming and Sherlock´s plans for pursuing Moran, it is safer for you to stay under my protection," Mycroft replies. "And knowing you, you´d prefer adventure to a dull room somewhere away from the bustle of Sherlock´s activities any time."

There is truth in Mycroft´s words and John can´t deny it. As livid as he is about the elder Holmes´ interference, he can´t picture moving out at the moment. That would mean defeat, and he is not going to be defeated by both the Holmes brothers. No, he will stand his ground and wait for a chance to lash back. If staying in 221B is the price for proving his point, it is just as well.

He breathes out heavily. "Right. But don´t consider me any more than a tenant who is watching. I am not going to participate in your actions, whatever they will be. And expect me to move out as soon as I have found something fitting. Oh, and please don´t count on me as a medical counselor to your brother. I will definitely not baby-sit a recovering addict."

Mycroft sighs again, if for relieve or exhaustion, John can´t tell. "Your medical expertise will not be needed. Dr. Morstan will move into 221C, temporarily. My brother refused to take part in an outpatient programme, so he gets his personal consultant."

Dr. Morstan? Suddenly the prospect of Sherlock moving in at Baker Street doesn´t seem that abhorrent anymore. "Very well, we are clear then," John says.

Mycroft nods. "Fine. Oh, and John – try to get decent earplugs. Certainly my brother will feel the urgent need to keep up with his violin skills once he´s back."

When Mycroft cuts the line, John´s joy at seeing Mary Morstan again blocks out any anger he is feeling at being forced to welcome Sherlock back in 221B.


	8. Settling In

One week has passed and Baker Street 221B is once again the home of Sherlock Holmes, the world´s only Consulting Detective. At least Sherlock has reappeared physically in his former flat. He has arrived in Mycroft´s private car, nearly been dragged into 221A by an overjoyed Mrs. Hudson and is currently standing at the window where his violin and music stand used to sit, looking out onto the street, barely aware of Mycroft´s words of goodbye.

"Lestrade will pick you up tomorrow morning for the investigation at the Yard," the elder Holmes says, twirling his umbrella. "And we will talk to the press officer, too." He feels slightly nervous to leave, and he dearly hopes that Sherlock and John won´t start a fight the minute he is gone. But John, who sits in his favourite chair, is uncharacteristically quiet, trailing every single movement of his former and recent flatmate. The doctor can´t quite assimilate to the sight of Sherlock in his beloved coat, collar turned up as always, his hair already a tad longer, but still far from falling into his face.

"Dr. Watson. John," Mycroft addresses him and John winces, nods and leads him to the door. Mycroft leans towards him and, in a soft voice, orders him to call as soon as he becomes aware of any shift in Sherlock´s supposedly calm appearance. John knows this shift will certainly come as soon as the valium and other medication for the withdrawal have worn off and craving raises its ugly head, but he doesn´t comment. He feels detached anyway. All this can only be a dream; it clearly can´t be reality. He was going to move out, after all. Never would he have expected to again hear a second pair of feet pace the floor firmly, and the slight intake of breath whenever Sherlock finds something he deems worth his attention.

When the door is shut, he turns to see the detective open the violin case he has carried into the flat, and he watches as Sherlock retrieves and regards his instrument with a loving smile. With verve, Sherlock places it under his chin, tugs at the strings, tuning them, and starts to play. A slow, melancholy melody fills the air which John can´t place; it seems part European and part Asian, and he shrugs, sighs, rubs his eyes, and retreats to the kitchen.

Two hours later, midnight approaching, Sherlock is still lost in his music. John passes him on his way to his room and he notices his friend has not even removed his coat. It is dark in the flat, only a small reading lamp in their living room glowing, but from the deep frown John can discern on Sherlock´s face in spite of the gloominess he takes it that something is amiss.

"Sherlock? Shouldn´t you rest?" he asks. Then he notices the detective´s fingertips are bleeding. Carefully, he places his hand on Sherlock´s right, stopping him from using the bow. The younger man stares at him blankly, with a faraway look which two years ago would have cut John´s heart to pieces. But all the doctor can think of now is how bloody stupid it is to hurt himself by playing an instrument, and how driven Sherlock must be that he hasn´t noticed.

"You are bleeding," he finally says, and Sherlock looks at his fingers, then at John.

"Oh,” he says. "I… I didn´t notice." He looks so lost and helpless that John needs to violently quell the spark of pity which kindles in his heart despite his persisting annoyance. At least I could get him a towel, he thinks, and walks over to the bathroom.

Sherlock accepts it gracefully, first cleaning his violin, then pressing it against his fingertips.

"Are you not going to bed?" John asks.

"Sleep is badly overrated," Sherlock replies, with a tiny smile which doesn´t match the other man´s stony expression. He gently puts the violin down, turning away from John´s disapproving gaze.

"Go to bed, John. I don´t think I´ll get much sleep, but I need to try," he says. From the corner of his eye he sees John nod, and after a minute he feels the void of the doctor´s absence.

When Sherlock knows for sure he is alone, he enters the bathroom. Obviously John has prepared the cabinet for his arrival. Most of the medical supplies he used to keep have gone except for harmless ones like aspirin, bandages, or plasters. No syringes, Sherlock thinks, and winces. This is not a train of thought he should really be pursuing, but the image of a neat, sharp piece of steel sticks in his mind nevertheless.

He grabs the plaster, angry with himself, and wraps his fingers tightly, stilling the blood which has already made a mess of the towel. His image in the mirror over the sink catches his attention and he regards it, wondering when, if ever, he will feel in tune with his old self again. Probably never, he muses. As if to convince himself of how much he has changed, he strips off his clothes to gauge his scars. One especially nasty one sits on the right wrist. The equally ugly trail of a graze marks his shoulder, a knife´s cut his chest, and a small mark on the left, under his ribs, tells of where the blade of a dealer´s knife entered his body four months ago.

He´s marred. No, it is not him who is marred, it is his position in life. He is still regarded a fraud, and he will probably never be able to restore his reputation. Moriarty has succeeded in disgracing him. He has disgraced himself. And, most regrettably, in John´s opinion. Now, only the question of how to gain John´ trust again bears importance for him.

At least John is alive, he thinks, momentarily forgetting about the threat Moran signifies for both of them, and closes his eyes. At least what I did worked, he thinks. Then he remembers John´s and his encounter with Moran and hisses. The danger is far from over. And he is a fraud, after all. He couldn´t, he can´t possibly keep John safe.

Back in his own room, Sherlock finds everything unchanged except for the wardrobe stripped of clothes and the bare shelves. He misses his books on apiculture most, trailing his fingers along the spaces they are supposed to sit in. With a sigh, he turns to his bed, but hesitates to lie down, and on a whim crouches down in front of it. Right, he can feel it, the small nook in one of the duckboard´s rods, and the soft polystyrene bag falls into his hand as expected. He sits on his haunches, fingering the white powder, pondering laying out a line and snorting it. He chides himself for searching for the bag in the first place. But how could he have known that it would actually still sit under his bed, he argues. For several minutes he is nailed to the spot, not being able to make a decision, when at last the face of Moran appears in his mind.

"You really are having fun, aren´t you?" the criminal asks, grinning viciously at him while holding the syringe out of his reach, and he can hear himself sob and beg. This memory of deepest humiliation is enough motivation for him to thrust the package into the darkest recess of the room. At the same time he gets up in one fluid movement and flings himself onto the mattress. He´s really too worn to get back to the bathroom and flush the cocaine down the toilet, he reasons, convinced that this is what he will do first thing in the morning.

He finds the thick duvet shields him sufficiently from the outside world, only letting in the familiar sounds of Baker Street he has longed for during all these past months and nearly forgotten. 

* * *

Somewhere else in London, a man with power composes an e-mail message that could change several people´s lives.


	9. Pair of Wings

It is very early morning in London, the time when the cleaning brigades have just finished their work and the commuters have not yet arrived. There are not many people in the streets, as most are still enjoying their breakfast or traveling by train or underground into the city.

It is the time Sherlock loves his hometown the most. He likes the night, too, but the morning is the most peaceful part of the day. He can remember incidents when he was grateful for the peace of a London morning, especially one memorable occasion when he found shelter from a particularly vicious dealer by returning to Mycroft´s house. Other times, he was just glad to feel like the only living person on the streets, cherishing his solitude.

He has been following familiar paths without thinking, trying to get rid of the agitation the memory of his captivity in the disused quarry in Kent has caused. And he has dumped the stash of cocaine in one of the first gutters he passed, making sure to get rid of temptation. He knows he is too wired to be able to resist, especially since John is not available to listen to him. If he is completely honest with himself, John has been the main cause for him to stay clean for more than mere months. Irene was right: John is his compass, and he needs him badly, especially now while he is weak and unstable.

His feet carry him all the way to St. Bart´s. It was Mary who suggested he should go back there. She considered it a "cathartic experience," and Sherlock, for whom it has been far too dangerous to come close to the hospital in the past months, thinks it is high time he takes her advice. Probably he will at least get rid of the tantalizing nightmares of falling and dying he had since the day he jumped off the hospital´s rooftop.

He is standing in the same spot John had been standing and tries very hard to picture what exactly he has put his friend through. He remembers John shaking his head, shouting at him, trying to stop him. And he remembers his own determination, fear, and pain. It starts to rain, but the detective doesn´t take notice that the heavy fabric of his coat is getting soaked. This is something he badly needs to do: just to stand in this spot, reliving his memories, trying to fathom John´s agony. Perhaps if he can grasp the meaning, no, the feeling of what it is like to watch a friend taking an irreparable action, he will be able to comprehend why John is so determined to push him away.

The rain subsides after a while and Sherlock clutches his mobile, his face still turned up toward the roof, deep in thought. 

* * *

John is up early. He has slept only fitfully, dreaming of the bee man again. The strange creature has made a steady appearance in his sleep lately, and he knows that it is somehow connected to Sherlock. He moans as he remembers his unwanted companion and although the flat is eerily silent he decides not to check in on the detective. "Not his baby-sitter," he reminds himself bitterly, and settles for breakfast.

Half an hour later the door slams shut and Sherlock strides in, his coat wet from the fierce showers the earlier bright morning has turned into, a tight expression on his face. Without a word he shrugs out of the dripping garment and turns to the range to set the kettle on. After several minutes of silence, John falls to the temptation to feed his curiosity.

"You´ve been out?" he asks curtly.

There´s a tell-tale wince in Sherlock´s shoulders which indicates he must be rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Clever observation, my dear doctor," he answers and turns to face John. "As these rooms are neither a prison nor a rehabilitation facility I am certain that I am allowed to leave the premises as I like." His frown deepens and his lips curl in a sarcastic smile. "Or should I take it that you were actually worried?" If John were still willing to listen to him, he would probably make the effort to explain he went to St. Bart´s and why. But as things are, he would only waste his energy.

"Not at all," John answers curtly. "Why should I be?" That is a lie. Sherlock, too fixed on his own thoughts, has been unobserving enough to miss John´s swift examination of his hands and eyes. John, as things stand, would never acknowledge his relief on finding his flatmate´s pupils are not blown.

"Why indeed," Sherlock acknowledges. He is starting to add something, but a knock on the door interrupts him.

"Come in, it´s open," John calls, mug in hand. He expects Mrs. Hudson with some homemade delicacies to feed his haggard flatmate, but a far younger woman enters. "Sorry to interrupt, but I´ve been waiting for Sherlock, and…"

Dr. Mary Morstan falters, sensing the tension between the two men. The detective still stares at John, his expression grim but his eyes betraying a pain Mary can´t place. John has deliberately turned away from his gaze, facing her with his most charming smile.

"I am sure he was going to see you any minute," he states in his most charming voice, and Sherlock winces and slams the mug he has retrieved from the cupboard down on the table.

"I can talk for myself, thank you very much," he snarls, and looks at his private consultant. "I needed some air. It is rather stifling in here," he explains, sending John a telling gaze.

"I guess," Mary answers with a tiny sympathetic smile, regarding them both. "If you have a minute to spare, will you come down to my rooms for our session?"

Sherlock nods. "After breakfast," he promises. Both men watch her leave, Sherlock wrinkling his nose in annoyance that he is forced to undergo treatment, John mesmerized by Mary´s elegant movements and the swing of her ponytail.

* * *

Sherlock has just grabbed a newspaper and sipped from his mug – tea, no coffee this morning, for he is already nervous and has no intention to get even more anxious than he already is due to his recent detox, when there is commotion downstairs and the sound of steps on the stairs are heard.

Mrs. Hudson peeks in, cheerily announcing their visitor. "Boys, it´s Lestrade! Sherlock, love, you´d better be presentable."

The detective abandons mug and newspaper and steps forward into their living room, adjusting his collar. "Aren´t I always?" he asks his landlady with a genuine smile, and she tuts and slaps him playfully on the chest.

All three of them stall in their movements when the Detective Inspector enters. John is instantly reminded of the last time all four of them met, of Sherlock´s arrest at Baker Street, and clearly Sherlock thinks the same.

"No handcuffs this time, Lestrade?" he asks sarcastically, by way of a greeting.

Lestrade raises his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Not today. As long as you follow me voluntarily and you´re not high," he replies. If he is aghast at how pale and worn Sherlock looks, so much resembling his former self of all those years ago when Greg arrested the most brilliant-minded junkie he ever met, he doesn´t show it. "But I´m afraid you will need to accompany me in a police car."

Sherlock, who has already shrugged into his coat, fastens his scarf. He looks at the inspector, his nose wrinkling in disgust, but says nothing. Then he straightens up, hovering over the smaller man like a vulture. "You´re still doubting me," he accuses him. "Just as you did when you came to arrest me."

Lestrade stares back, but doesn´t flinch. "So there´s your chance to prove we were wrong," he replies, evenly. "And please save your delight about our reunion for later."

Sherlock shoots daggers at the policeman but becomes aware of the wrinkles circling Lestrade´s eyes, revealing a suppressed smile of deep relief, and his expression softens. He turns swiftly and opens the door with his usual verve. "Not after you, then," he says, already hurrying down the stairs.

John´s eyes meet Lestrade´s and John only cocks an eyebrow while the elder man sighs openly.

"Insufferable as ever," he says, which brings a tiny, knowing smirk to John´s lips. Then the Detective Inspector is gone, as well.


	10. Hornet´s Nest

The man who composed the important and very secret email the previous night is staring at his computer screen. If the information his contact has sent him is right, their victim will finally be trapped. The arms deal with Syria, a state with which Great Britain has recently cut all diplomatic connections due to the civil war, and the presumed involvement of the man they are trying to corner will certainly set the media on high alert. If they are very lucky, they will be able to time the scandal to the man´s brother´s reappearance.

He laughs. Both brothers have been so careful all these years. Now they will soon experience that all their precautions have been for nothing.

* * *

Lestrade looks sideways at Sherlock who is sitting beside him on the rear bench. The Detective Inspector can´t help but smile at the grave look on the detective´s face. He knows from experience that his consultant is not in the mood to talk but will talk nevertheless when asked or confronted with interesting data. He has missed that dark look so much and he is more than happy to welcome his friend back. When Mycroft confirmed that the nameless person they had taken to hospital was indeed his brother, Lestrade had needed a large whisky. He had washed down his relief with another dram when Mycroft called to tell him that Sherlock would live. He can still feel the joy of knowing that Sherlock was alive and the raw fear of losing him again.

The inspector turns and regards the detective´s pale skin and haggard features, his heart leaping out to the man. From what Mycroft told him three days ago, when they were discussing how to proceed with the interrogation concerning the Moriarty / Richard Brook case, he knows that Sherlock has been through a hard time. His pity would certainly not be welcomed, so he decides to voice the doubt that has sat in his mind for these past months, in the hope that Sherlock will understand.

"I couldn´t believe that you had really killed yourself, you know. I knew you were always foolish enough to dive headlong into danger, but suicide was beyond you." Sherlock´s brows are knitted and Lestrade knows he has gained his attention.

"You know, when you overdosed all these years ago, I kind of expected that," he continues. "What I would never have expected was to see your shattered skull in the morgue. It got to me. I had nightmares of trying to stop you, of not being able to rescue you." He pauses. "I´m glad you are back. John must be glad, too."

Sherlock stares out of the window. The houses and landmarks of London pass quietly and he drinks in the sight of life in the capital. John, he thinks. How wrong everybody is about John´s reaction to the news that I am alive. "He is far from happy," he replies, "My brother had to blackmail him to make him stay at Baker Street."

Lestrade sends him a questioning look, but Sherlock just shakes his head slightly. "Don´t ask," he pleads. "I can´t tell you what his motivation is. He just seems to be really angry that I deceived him." 

"But you did jump to rescue us. You placed your life above that of three other people," Lestrade states. "Don´t look at me like that. Mycroft told me about the snipers." The policeman smiles genuinely. "I always said some day you might be a good man. John should be proud of what you did."

Sherlock snarls. "Don´t get sentimental, Lestrade. I am far from being a good man. I´m a pathetic addict and a failure. John said I only needed him as an extra for my plan. What if he´s right and I only wanted to keep him safe to show off?"

"You know quite well that wasn´t why," Lestrade says, softly. "I can imagine that John is angry, for whenever did he ask to be kept safe by you? He was the one backing you up, after all."

Sherlock sighs. The inspector has a point there. If only John would talk to him, shout at him – anything would be better than the tension and bitterness between them.

Lestrade looks at his friend, taking in his worn features and the yellow tinges of former bruises on Sherlock´s cheeks. The detective has lost his best friend´s support and Lestrade feels that he needs to offer some more of his own. He clears his throat. "Concerning the drugs, when I saw you in hospital after all this time, I couldn´t believe it could ever be you, even though the anonymous user we´d found in Hyde Park really looked like you. I couldn´t believe it, Sherlock. Not you. Not after all the effort…"

"That´s because you thought I was dead, Lestrade," Sherlock cuts in. "I actually enjoyed getting high, you know. Moran didn´t even need to force me to inject, after a while." Lestrade looks at him, wondering why the younger man is so determined to reject his kindness. He can only assume that Sherlock is fighting badly with his disappointment and hurt.

"Stop it," the detective chides him, sensing the inspector´s inscrutable gaze. "Stop drawing conclusions." He pauses and takes a breath, in preparation for what he is going to say next. "See, concerning the meeting later… You know, I´m even more irritable and nervous at the moment than usual. I might not be on my best form nor very polite when answering the questions."

Lestrade nods. This is as close as Sherlock will come to acknowledging he needs help dealing with the upcoming interrogation. "We can always take a break, you know," he says. "Just bear in mind that the clearer your answers are, the sooner the investigation will be over."

Sherlock nods in approval. Lestrade knows how swift and precise he can be in his explanations and is basically telling him that he should make good use of his talents and give smart-arse a wide berth. He smiles sadly at the memory of John´s remark. "I´m with you, Inspector," he murmurs, again regarding the doors and windows of London passing outside the car.

* * *

Seventeen wooden steps - of which two are creaking, one is worn out and the last is a little bit higher than the others - lead to the front door of 221 Baker Street. John knows them all by heart, nearly as well as Sherlock, who always avoids the creaking ones and never stumbles on the last.

Today, it feels to the doctor as if there are thirty-four steps to surmount, as giddy as he is, his heart beating faster with every single step he takes. Even his leg, which has been miraculously cured ever since Sherlock returned, is trembling slightly. He damns his stupid idea until he reaches the bottom and finds himself in front of the door to 221C. Pulling himself together, he reaches up to knock when it suddenly opens and Dr. Mary Morstan steps out.

John gapes at her, and Mary jumps, startled, her hand on her heart. "Goodness me, what are you doing here?" she gasps, already laughing at John´s expression. "I wonder which of us is more frightened," she says with a twinkle in her eyes.

"Erm… well, I… I came for some milk," John blurts out. "You know, I had tea, but no milk." Oh bollocks, he thinks. He´s been in Afghanistan and he´s a crack shot, but now he can hardly remember how to talk coherently. He takes a deep breath. "It seems we have run out of milk. I was going to ask if I could borrow some."

Mary tries hard to stay serious, and nods. "Of course, Dr. Watson," she says. "If you would like to come in, please?"

John nods, curtly, and follows her inside.

Two hours later the seventeen steps to 221 seem to have disappeared. Or John has simply flown back into his flat – he seriously can´t remember. He sits in his favourite chair, clinging to the milk bottle in his right hand, thinking neither of putting it in the fridge nor making a fresh cup of tea, but of Mary. Mary who has been working with "Doctors without Borders". Mary, who is currently assigned to a military clinic, treating soldiers who used drugs during their time in Afghanistan. Mary, whose genuine smile might have been directed solely at him. Mary, who gained Sherlock´s trust when he was in rehab five years ago because she didn´t report him when she discovered a vial of morphine in his room. Sherlock. Damn it! John slams out of his reverie, annoyed that his train of thought has led him back to his flatmate. If only he could quit caring for his traitor friend. It would be much for the better for both of them.

* * *

The bustle of the Yard is one of the most familiar surroundings Sherlock knows, and he feels his heart lurch and a sense of elation when he walks at Lestrade´s side through the main hall up to the escalators. He ignores the sense of being trapped the short ride causes him, ignores his palms going sweaty and the slight trembling in his hands. He ignores the fear that gnaws at him at being confined in a small space, and doesn´t meet Lestrade´s concerned gaze.

They get out at the sixth floor, for the Inspector needs to retrieve the file on the Moriarty case from his office, and Sherlock follows him in confident strides, ignoring the glances the Inspector´s colleagues are shooting him. They all know who he is, but they have been ordered not to voice any words of greeting or acclaim to grant him his peace.

Everybody follows that order, except one man.

When Lestrade leaves his office again, Sherlock in tow and the large file in hand, there´s Anderson striding past them. His eyes widen as he regards Sherlock´s very alive features and he stares for a moment, before he continues to walk toward them, meeting Sherlock´s gaze with a false smile.

"Oh, it´s you," he says. "Stepped out of the grave to meet your charges?"

"Anderson, leave it," Lestrade snarls dangerously. But the forensic analyst doesn´t relent.

"Am I not allowed to greet our mastermind consultant who managed to fool death?" he says, stepping nearer to Sherlock. "Come on, be a good boy and let me see you are not a fake," he demands, his hand tightening in a dead grip on Sherlock´s marred right wrist.

Anderson´s touch is unfriendly and hard, and Sherlock flinches violently, suppressing a harsh curse. Involuntarily, he raises a fist and slams it down on Anderson´s mouth, splitting his lip. Lestrade can´t help noticing that the detective has improved a lot in his fighting skills.

"What the hell…" Anderson mutters, probing his swollen mouth. "I only wanted to make sure that you are not a ghost, for God´s sake."

The Detective Inspector, who has seen Sherlock pale, notices the trembling in the detective´s shoulders and his tensed muscles. A sheen of sweat has formed on his face and he is breathing rapidly, clear signs of agitation, if not panic.

"Sherlock, it´s all right," he says, laying a reassuring hand on the younger man´s arm. "It´s all right."

Sherlock, still shaking, grabs the inspector´s hand and slumps against the wall, his knees giving way under him. Eyes closed, he feels the rush of blood in his ears and his speeding heartbeat sending tremors through his whole body. "Come on, be a good boy," a voice which is not Anderson´s coaxes him, and he shakes his head, whimpering, sliding down to the floor. He tries to fight the grip of strong hands on his shoulders, but the man who holds him doesn´t let go. His breathing is still too rapid, but he finally hears the words of comfort the other man mumbles and pries his eyes open. Lestrade looks at him with a concerned expression and Anderson gapes at him with something between loathing and bewilderment.

"It´s all right, Sherlock. Breathe. Steady, that´s it." Lestrade still holds him by the shoulders, but Sherlock staggers and gets up, searching for support by leaning on the wall. He can´t remember what happened. He just knows he was near a breakdown and all he can think of is that he doesn´t want anyone to see him like this.

"Come on, mate." Lestrade supports him towards a nearby room and sits him down on a chair. There are images fighting in Sherlock´s head which he isn´t able to link either to Lestrade or Anderson and he still hears the malicious voice calling out to him. He feels hot breath on his face and hands clawing at his wrists which ache as if they are on fire. The voice mocks him, telling him insults in a sickly sweet tone and a third hand pushes into his hair, fixing his head tightly to the spot. He feels a needle enter his vein and hears a delighted, vicious laugh. An orange form enters his vision and he blinks, snapping back into reality, tasting bile. Someone has handed him a shock blanket, he realizes, and for once he doesn´t protest but huddles into its warmth, as he is feeling numb and cold, his hands shaking.

Lestrade is at his side, mobile in hand. "Are you sure you are up to the questioning?" he asks concernedly, and Sherlock nods, although he is beginning to feel very tired.

"Just need water. For the pills." He nearly chokes on the words, and the detective inspector barks an order, retrieves his mobile, and dials a number. "We´ll be with you in half an hour," Sherlock hears him say. "Yes. We need to go through some of the files before we can come up." He is covering up for the detective, and Sherlock feels unusually grateful.

When he sees Anderson, still standing outside, dumbfounded, lip bleeding, he remembers having hit him. Lestrade, who has finished his phone call, steps out and confronts the dark haired man. Sherlock, who still feels detached, watches as Anderson raises his hands in protest, falters, and finally leaves with a gloomy look.

Lestrade returns, crouching in front of the detective, examining him closely. "Tell me what that was just now," he says, but Sherlock shakes his head, prying his medicine from the package and taking it without hesitation. As much as he always longed for a good reason to punch Anderson, he can´t come up with a proper explanation why he did it, for he is actually scared of what he just remembered.

Obviously, this is going to be a long day. It might be a far more agonizing process to get back to the living than he expected. Especially since he is on his own in this.


	11. Withering Flowers

Mycroft Holmes has been worrying for several weeks now. His brother has been in rehab only so long as was absolutely necessary, and has been pushing to be reinstated to Scotland Yard and society ever since the brothers last talked in the military hospital. He has remains resolute that time is of the essence in gaining advantage over Moran. Mycroft, at Sherlock´s request, has scheduled the press conference two days earlier than he thinks reasonable.

The elder Holmes is worried about whether his younger brother is really fit for the task at hand. What Lestrade reported to him of Sherlock´s breakdown at the Yard is troubling enough, and the detective´s nervousness and restlessness are clear signs of his present tension. Mycroft can only hope his brother won´t turn to drugs again to soothe his mind.

At least Sherlock has been uncharacteristically compliant with all of his brother´s and doctor´s requests. He has seen a cardiologist, and he goes down to Dr. Morstan´s rooms to confer with her on a daily basis. He has not once refused to take his prescriptions and has even attended sessions with a physiotherapist. The past week has been busy for Sherlock, and Mycroft wonders if this is partly due to his brother wanting to avoid seeing much of John. The two men are still tense and grumpy with each other and John seems to be longing for the day that either he or Sherlock leaves 221B. Mycroft´s thoughts return to his brother´s breakdown, and he scrolls through Robson´s report for the hundredth time. Sherlock has been as open as possible about being held captive by Moran, but nothing he has told the agent points toward why he reacted so violently to Anderson´s stupid remark.

Mycroft can only guess what has happened to his brother. His experience was clearly just the last straw in a long period of sustained danger and enduring violence, and Sherlock seems to have finally cracked under the strain. If this is the case, now is definitely the most inconvenient time for him to engage in fighting a mastermind criminal.

Mycroft sighs. Nothing he can say to his brother will convince him to back off and wait several weeks longer or let Mycroft´s men take over. He can only hope that Sherlock does know what he is doing. His part will be to watch him and interfere, if necessary. Nothing in this is new to him, he thinks sarcastically. This test he will pass with flying colours. 

* * *

Sherlock returns from the last interrogation session at the Yard in the early afternoon, the day before the press conference. He finds John at the kitchen table. The doctor hardly looks up from his notebook, waving a hand towards the living room.

"You have a parcel," he says. "Mycroft sends his regards."

Sherlock turns and finds a large, plain box perching on the living room desk. He fishes out a brown envelope and spots two garments, neatly wrapped in foil. The envelope holds a brand new British passport and a driving licence, accompanied by a note from his brother.

"Happy birthday, Sherlock," it says. "I consider bulletproof garments appropriate for your return to the living. I do hope you approve of my choice." Sherlock smiles. His brother has taken care of the paperwork and reinstalled him in society. And he is still concerned enough to keep him safe.

Curious, the detective unfolds his present. It is a coat which resembles his Belstaff in every detail except that it is much heavier and harder to the touch. He knows a certain talented Italian tailor manufactures bulletproof jackets and coats for celebrities and politicians. These garments are not discernible from normal clothes and are comfortable to wear. They must cost a fortune, and if he weren´t so tired, Sherlock would actually call his brother to thank him. As he feels that he can hardly stay awake any longer, he sits down on the sofa instead, fingering the sleeves and collar of the new coat, examining the material eagerly.

Suddenly, he is aware of John watching him and looks up.

"There´s a jacket for you, too," he says. "Bullet-proof. Present from Mycroft."

John frowns but steps nearer and retrieves a leather jacket from the box. He whistles softly as he heaves the garment up. "Wow. That´s brilliant."

Sherlock flinches a little at the familiar word, but looks at him seriously. "Will you wear it, John? At the meeting tomorrow? And as long as Moran is out there, trailing us?"

John glowers at him with a frown before he nods. "I will wear it, yes. Tell Mycroft I thank him. But I will not come with you tomorrow. Your brother might have the power to blackmail me into staying in our flat, but I will not let him bribe me into accompanying you." The doctor lets the jacket fall back into the box and opens his mouth as if to say something else before he retreats to the kitchen and silence settles again.

But Sherlock can´t leave him alone this time. He feels the urgent need to ask his friend another question, one which has been bothering him for several days now, and he wants to confirm his theory. He gets up and stands in the kitchen door, lightly leaning on its frame.

"If you don´t want to stay, why don´t you move out?" he asks flatly.

John, who has not yet taken his seat at the kitchen table again, turns. "In fact, I was going to."

Sherlock sends him a bright, piercing gaze. "Don´t lie to me, John. Do you really think I haven´t noticed what your real motive for staying is?"

John stares back, angered at the confident tone of Sherlock´s voice and at the same time wondering if he really thought said motive could have gone unnoticed by the perceptive genius. He looks at his flatmate and awaits his verdict.

"You are staying because of Dr. Morstan," Sherlock says. His voice is steady, but nevertheless John feels a pang of guilt at the truth behind the detective´s words. When Sherlock starts to rattle off his observations, John realises that this time it is not for the purpose of confirming a fact. It is for the purpose of asking a question. The question of whether he will ever be able to forgive, to trust again.

"Since there are always milk bottles in the fridge Dr. Morstan has ordered for her flat and since you come back from the surgery most evenings only to leave the flat soon afterwards, and since I can hear your steps on the creaking stairs late in the night but the front door slamming shut, I am certain that you do not leave the house. Mrs. Hudson goes to bed early, and I never hear her talking to you downstairs, so it is not her you are paying your frequent visits. Knowing the number of females you have been able to chat up during out acquaintance, it is highly likely that it is Dr. Morstan you are keeping company. And you are bearing a sheepishly happy smile, which is clearly not directed at me, every time you return. You look happy, John. You are smitten with Dr. Morstan, and this is motive enough for you to not move out."

John gapes at the detective. If he has so far been uncertain of the kind of relationship he has with Mary, he now knows for sure. But he is still angry that Sherlock has seen through him, aloof as ever.

"That was brilliant," he retorts, annoyed, spitting out the last word. "Thank you for the confirmation that I am not staying because of you. Not that I needed it, though."

Sherlock stays silent, his face unmoved. He simply nods, staggers back to the sofa, his tired limbs practically sagging, where he draws his legs up and huddles into the cushions. Clinging to the coat, John´s refusal still in his ears, he finally succumbs to his weariness.

* * *

Later in the evening John leaves for his shift at the hospital. Sherlock, whose dreams have been disturbing enough to wake him after an hour of fitful sleep, is reading an article on CO2-guns. He looks up when the doctor passes him.

There are so many things he would like to say to his friend but he doesn´t want to beg for John´s attention. When the door slams, Sherlock throws his head back to look at the ceiling. His fingers twitch and his skin crawls, sure signs of want and need settling in his limbs like a deadly poison.

He thinks of his new passport, a symbol that he is restored to being himself again. But nothing is as it used to be. He is not the one he used to be. He sighs and runs a trembling hand through his dark curls, which are damp with sweat. Tonight is definitely going to be a danger night.

* * *

Two hours later, Mary opens her door to a tired and troubled patient. She briefly wonders what he has on his mind, but his expression indicates that he is not quite willing to talk. She knows this gloomy look of his and smiles at the memory of the man she had met all these years ago, and how he had slowly opened up to her. He must still trust her, for he has been very open – for Sherlock, that is – in their sessions, and she feels he is on a good path to recovery. If only John were willing to hear him out, he would heal much faster, though.

"Sherlock? What´s wrong?" He turns mid-way into her living room, one hand hidden in his curls.

"Nothing. I just… I guess I would like some company," he replies with a nervous smile.

Mary smiles back, taking in the desperation and need in his eyes and she knows why he has come. The detective can´t trust himself. He longs for a hit and aims to take control over himself again.

"Why don´t you sit down for a minute?" she asks, and he nods. She takes the opposite seat and examines his face, the tension in his features, the sadness in his eyes.

"You know, you are doing fine," she finally states. "I´m only worried about the stress you put yourself under. Perhaps the press conference is scheduled a bit too early."

Sherlock looks at her, his eyes dark and alert. "No. I need to come out of hiding. The sooner we get Moran, the better." Involuntarily, he starts to drum a melody on the armrest.

"Is that Bach?" Mary asks, curious.

Sherlock, who only now notices what his left hand is doing, starts. "Oh. Yes. Johann Sebastian Bach's Partita No. 1." A code, he thinks. Moriarty´s code. He shivers as if the wind of a bright summer day with high clouds is touching him. He can hear the sound of a gun going off, deafening him. Falling is like flying – his enemy´s words are repeating in his mind and he stops his drumming, staring into space.

"Why are you here?" Mary asks softly and he snaps out of his musings and regards her again.

"I guess I needed a friend," he answers with a bitter snort.

"That´s fine with me." Mary smiles back and holds his gaze until his expression softens. Her heart reaches out to him when the deep frown he had worn on his entrance reappears.

"You need to acknowledge the truth," she says.

Sherlock sighs and looks at the floor. "I couldn´t stay at the flat. John is not in." He looks up and meets her eyes. "I am itching for a hit." He pauses, and Mary feels as if she must hold her breath because she senses that the detective has stripped off his mask in an attempt to be completely honest.

His eyes meet hers. "I want it to stop. God, I wish it had all stopped when my heart stopped."

"Would you really prefer to cease fighting?" Mary asks softly. "Do you really wish you had given up so easily?"

Sherlock closes his eyes, briefly, and folds his fingers. "No," he breathes, eyes open and thoughtful. "But I feel as if nothing matters anymore. I doubt I would even be able to feel anything if I had a hit."

"You´re worn out emotionally and physically," Mary tells him. "You´re depressed due to withdrawal, as well. This will pass. You just need to give yourself time."

He looks at her, gets up in one elegant stride, and walks to the door. "Time, Dr. Morstan, is what I don´t have," he snaps in his most confident voice, and turns the handle.

"Sherlock?" He turns to look back. "I am sure John will eventually talk to you again," Mary says.

He frowns. "It seems he finds it far more enjoyable to entertain you, Mary. He definitely doesn´t want to get involved in my affairs. He is very resolutely not accompanying me tomorrow." He pauses. "Professional help will be of more use more to me than the support of a former friend anyway, I reckon."

Mary, who knows she can´t stop him going, steps closer. "Don´t you want to stay a bit?" she asks, worried. His eyes meet hers, and for a second she sees the loneliness there. But then he frowns, his face a mask of confidence again, shakes his head, and leaves.

With Sherlock gone, Mary finds herself worrying that the detective is taxing himself too much. If only the press conference and the media hype were already over. Sherlock will need to be more than confident to deal with the press, but at present he seems to be less confident than ever. And she can only do so much as a doctor. 

* * *

In the rainy March night, a restless, desperate, and weary man strides along the Embankment. He stops and lights a cigarette. Still as a statue, his coat flapping in the strong wind, he regards the reflections of multiple street lights and still illuminated windows in the water of the stream which is the heart of his city.

He had once been told he has no heart. When he discovered his, he was forced to burn it. And he does not know how to gain it back. Sighing, he butts out the cigarette and continues walking. The even movement soothes his mind.

Even more reassuring is the knowledge that he is being followed. For once, he has asked for a guard. And for once, he is grateful for being watched.


	12. Out in The Open

It has been a very taxing night shift for John. The A&E has seen a very busy night. It isn´t usually a quiet place anyway, but the emergency team had two seriously injured victims of a bad car accident coming in and, especially disturbing for John, a heroin addict with severe problems due to a bad batch. Annoyingly, the sight of a patient with shallow breathing, a weak pulse and blue-tinged lips reminded him of Sherlock and he has had a hard time fighting the image of his friend in a similar situation and focussing on the task at hand.

Now, he is worn and tired, and all he wants is to go home, take a shower, and dump himself under the blankets for a good rest. His plans are thwarted, though, by an elegant black limousine which pulls up next to him as soon as he walks away from the hospital entrance.

One of the tinted windows slides down and an all too familiar voice calls him.

"Would you please get into the car, John?" The sentence, phrased as a question, is, in fact, an order. John, infuriated, turns to face a very collected Mycroft Holmes.

"We need to be on time for the press conference," Mycroft elaborates.

"What in the phrase ‘Count me out’ did you not understand?" the doctor answers. He is not going to be ordered around, not even by the secret British government. Not this time.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "And what in the phrase ‘My brother needs you’ did you not understand?"

"Oh, he certainly wouldn´t tell me when he needs me. He has never considered it a necessity to confide his plans in me. You know that very well. And I told you both I will no longer get involved in your affairs."

Mycroft shoots him an unreadable glance. "John. Sherlock called me yesterday. He asked me a favour."

John´s eyebrows twitch. As far as he knows, the younger Holmes does his best to avoid calling his brother for help. He wonders what triggered this uncharacteristic behaviour.

Mycroft, who is still fixed upon him, nods, as if he has found confirmation in John´s silence. "He asked me to position one of my men at your front door. John, Sherlock was no longer sure of himself. He wanted me to assign someone on him to keep him from approaching a dealer."

John´s heart drops. He takes a deep breath and rakes his hand through his hair. Sherlock has admittedly been far from content lately. He has not been sleeping regularly, nor has he been able to finish any of his meals. If the detective turned back to drugs again with Moran out there hunting him, the results might be devastating. John sighs. "What do you want me to do?"

"As I said: Attend the press conference. Stay at his side. Help him to paint the picture that Hat-Man and Robin are back."

"Oh, for God´s sake," John mutters, exasperated. "Open the door, will you?"

Mycroft, who has retained his collected pose, does as John asks and the doctor slides in beside him. When the car pulls into the traffic, John feels a strange mix of anger and anticipation. 

* * *

They arrive at Scotland Yard just in time to catch Lestrade and Sherlock alighting from a police car and mounting the stairs to the main entrance. Obviously, news of the event has already leaked out, and the men are forced to push their way through a large crowd of journalists and bystanders. John spots the odd "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" poster in the turmoil. Some people even wear deerstalkers, while others cheer his and Sherlock´s names, waving at them.

Sherlock, who has followed Lestrade´s familiar confident, long strides, hears them calling John´s name and turns, a puzzled expression on his face. His eyes lock with John´s and his eyebrows knit as he notices his brother, who has stayed behind and is already getting back into the black Jaguar. Lestrade, who has also spotted John, smiles at the doctor and waits for him to join them. He guides his friends through the door, still smiling, and they leave the bustling crowd of journalists behind.

In the relative quiet of the entrance hall, no flashing lights and microphones popping into their faces, Sherlock visibly relaxes. He has never approved of being the subject of tabloid´s curiosity, and is not at all happy with the situation. For all his self-confidence when on a case, he has never desired to be the centre of public attention, and he loathes being forced to interact with a bunch of human beings who hunger to strip him and get the story of their lives. Unfortunately, displaying his presence to the public is crucial to his plan, and he needs to go through with this. He sends a questioning glance towards John, wondering what exactly his brother has told the army doctor to make him play along and rakes a hand through his hair.

John, in turn, feels more wound up now that he has joined his friend than he did when he entered Mycroft´s car. They step into the lift, and Sherlock fixes the doctor with an inquisitive gaze. "Well, here I am," John snaps. "Why have you come?" Sherlock cuts back hoarsely.

John regards his friend´s haggard features and the yellow tinges where two weeks ago his face was covered in heavy bruises. Sure, Sherlock still looks worse for wear – a more than suitable image for the opening page of any newspaper. "Fake detective rises from the dead" – the doctor can already imagine the headline printed out, announcing an article brimming with speculations about Sherlock, the fraud. He can see how tired the detective is; he probably didn´t have a wink of sleep the previous night, and John finds himself wondering why Sherlock still stays so determined to carry on with his plan.

"You brother abducted me once again," he replies.

"What did he tell you?" the detective asks angrily.

"He said you asked for his help yesterday."

Instantly, Sherlock´s features harden. His eyes narrow to slits and take on a darker shade of blue. "You came out of pity, then," he says.

"No, that's not why. Listen, I…" "I already told you to spare me your pity," Sherlock retorts, his voice sharp and scathing. "I thought we were clear on that. Stay if you must, but don´t pretend that you actually care." He spits out the last word, his tone harsh, and John knows that everything he might have wanted to say would be wasted.

So much for apologies, the doctor thinks bitterly, feeling anger building up again, and he shares a glance with Lestrade who just shrugs.

When the lift doors open, two very tense former friends step out who can hardly look at each other. A detective inspector follows who asks himself whether he is destined to be the one in charge of pouring oil on troubled water.

* * *

More journalists are squeezed into the corridor leading to the Yard´s main conference room, and Sherlock growls in annoyance as he passes their flashing cameras. John manages to take his right side, while Lestrade shields him from most of the annoying media pack on the left. When they enter, the detective suddenly sways, and John, to his surprise, feels his friend´s hand tightening on his left wrist in a death grip. He pretends to ignore the gesture, though, and doesn´t reply with a reassuring word, as he would likely have done in the past. They finally take their seats, and Sherlock feels he is covered in sweat again, fear pulsing through his body, his hands twitching. He tries to focus on their audience and takes several deliberate, deep breaths to stay calm. John´s presence helps him to focus and he finally manages to set up his professional mask and present himself to the audience with a stony face.

The press officer´s statement is short, swift, and to the point. Yes, Sherlock Holmes staged his suicide to protect three innocents who were entangled in the business of Moriarty´s web. Yes, he pursued the consulting criminal to bring him down.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes was one of the main informants in the Morbier case, and helped to stop a group of criminals belonging to Moriarty´s organisation who planned to send Europe´s stock exchanges into turmoil by simulating a terrorist attack on London´s financial centre. Yes, he has returned and will reside again at Baker Street. No, there are no longer any charges against him concerning the Richard Brook case, since Richard Brook was the creation of Moriarty.

The question-and-answer part is much harder.

"Will you continue working with the Yard, Mr. Holmes?" the first reporter asks.

While Sherlock attempts to answer, Lestrade´s superintendent Miller cuts in. "We haven´t decided yet. Surely Mr. Holmes´ consulting work in past years has been acknowledged as nearly indispensable by our homicide department, but at present we are sorry to say that we cannot allow a layman access to confidential information."

"Does that mean that we will see you in a different profession, Mr. Holmes? Probably as a magician?" another reporter chimes in. The crowd laughs, but Sherlock stays cold.

"I don´t think that would be advisable," he retorts, "since sorcerers are traditionally far more likely in danger to be burned by the ignorant masses than consultants."

"Could you turn some of your magic on us?" A blonde in the first row of seats sends him a flirtatious smile. Sherlock turns to face her, eyeing her upside down, scrutinising every detail.

"Of course", he answers lightly. "Let´s start with you, if you don´t mind. You´re fifty-two years old, but most people assume you are far younger, since your skin is still smooth and your hairdresser does a terrific job. Unfortunately, you have been in your profession for so long that it has started to bore you out of your wits, otherwise you wouldn´t chew on your nails, making your nailbeds cancerous. You are dying to write an exclusive report about me, thus you´ve tried to catch my attention with a very poor imitation of charm. You are not only anxious to regain a better standing with your editorial team, but you need the money really badly. That´s why you cheated on your last tax return. You couldn´t afford the expensive Swiss watch you are wearing with the meagre salary you are being paid, after all."

Stunned silence follows Sherlock´s deduction and John can´t help but smile to himself as he takes in the appalled faces of the superintendent and the press officer as well as the surprised stares of the media professionals. Lestrade is smiling, too, and something close to pride glints in his eyes. "Lestrade has suffered nearly as much as I have," John muses, and realisation hits him that when all this is over, things will be very much the same as they were. Sherlock will be taking up cases again, and with some luck, will soon be reinstated in the public´s opinion as the phenomenon he is – a genius with the talent to see what nobody else sees and to draw the right conclusions, thus being able to find answers to the most puzzling crimes. Surprisingly, John feels sad at the thought not to accompany the detective any longer. His appearance here at the Yard is definitely the last step in their partnership, he will make sure of that. As soon as they leave this room, they will go their separate ways, John assures himself.

Lost in his thoughts, he nearly misses the next question. A dark-haired man in a leather jacket raises his hand. "Dan Bradley, Daily Mirror. Mr. Holmes. I understand that you are currently recovering from a speedball overdose. May I assume that you couldn´t cope with the possibility that the public might find out the Reichenbach Hero is a junkie? You´ve been fighting a drug habit for several years, after all."

Something in Sherlock´s collected demeanor cracks. His eyes darken and he draws a sharp breath. Never before has the topic of his bygone addiction been an issue with the media, thanks to Lestrade and Mycroft´s secrecy. That it should be catching up with him now can only signify one thing: Moran is declaring war on him.

The superintendent is clearly confused by the question. "What do you mean, an overdose?" he asks.

Bradley shrugs. "I thought it was common knowledge that your consulting detective is a former junkie. He has probably drawn his inspirations for your cases from his trips."

Everyone looks at Sherlock now, who has paled visibly, his tightly balled fists resting on the table. "I will not answer your question," he says. "Anyway, if you want to write about me as an addict, I can give you this: on cocaine for eleven years, frequently on morphine, too. Overdosed twice, went into withdrawal several times – actually, I lost count." He glares at his audience. "I hope that will make a gripping cliffhanger for your story," he concludes.

Shouts and further questions follow, but Sherlock barely takes notice. He hears the press officer confirm that no more questions will be answered and dismiss the audience, but feels detached and weary as he gets up to leave. It has started, he thinks. There´s no turning back now. The thought makes him shiver in fear and he chides himself for being so weak, for losing focus. He wishes he could block out the unsettling feeling of dread which hampers his thoughts. He knows he is back at the same point he had reached the night before – that of turning to a familiar form of help to blend out the white noise threatening to keep him from concentrating on his mission.

When he surfaces from his thoughts, he feels Lestrade´s hand on his shoulder and senses John´s concerned gaze. Both men are clearly worried, for Sherlock is trembling, sweat forming on his forehead.

"What the hell was that, Sherlock?" Lestrade chides him. "Will you never learn to be more cautious?"

The younger man stares back. "It doesn´t matter what people think. But it matters that Moran knows I will not back off," he says, angry. "He must have fed the Daily Mirror details of my captivity. He wants to discredit me. But I am not going to give him the pleasure."

"What´s that supposed to mean?" the detective inspector asks.

"I will be safe within the media hype. Moran is not so foolish as to attack me openly in front of the British public. And John and I are under the highest security, which makes it even more difficult for him to approach me."

"And you are sure that he will tackle only you?" John can't resist asking.

Sherlock winces and looks at him sharply. "I am not. But whatever he does, he will want me in the end. I am his bait."

John stares back as the realisation hits him. "This is not hunting Moran down; this is close to atonement," he says. "Do you really feel you failed that badly in your first attempt to get to him?"

Sherlock stares back evenly. "Probably. Sometime I feel as if I were a fallen angel," he answers with a wry smile.

Lestrade, who has been listening to Sherlock´s explanation, agape, turns towards John. "The hell with his stupid ideas. He should actually be paid royalties from the publishing houses for that last statement." He regards Sherlock with exasperation. Sherlock, in turn, has spotted the press officer approaching them and is clearly itching to leave the premises.

John can´t help but smile at Lestrade´s suggestion. He has seen the woman too, and takes hold of Lestrade´s elbow, pushing him out of the way of the press officer who bears a very determined expression and is presently trying to brush past three Television reporters who are approaching her with questions.

"Come on, then", John says. "You´d better drive us home quickly, Greg, so we can hide before the media stampede rolls over Baker Street."

Lestrade nods and the three men get moving. They have only taken their first step, when Sherlock´s mobile announces an incoming call with the all-too familiar tune, "Staying Alive." John frowns and Sherlock waves a hand, signaling him that he will explain later, before he picks up.

The message he receives is obviously short and to the point, for the detective listens, wrinkles his nose and hangs up without a word. He turns to face his friends, his face collected and even, but his hands are twitching again.

"If you would drive us to the Diogenes Club first, Lestrade, Mycroft wants a word with me."


	13. Threatened

The nearly intimidating silence of the Diogenes Club is nothing John desires or appreciates. He prefers the bustle of a proper pub for recreation, not the eerie stillness of the club´s main salon where its members nap or stare into their newspapers without the tiniest rustle when turning the pages. Sherlock, on the other hand, seems perfectly at ease with his surroundings. He strides through the vast room like a baronet inspecting his patrimonial premises, in long, determined steps, coat swishing, and John has to make an effort to keep up with him.

Mycroft waits for them in his accustomed chair, his face serious, fingers steepled under his chin. When he hears his brother approach, he looks up, a silent question in his eyes, and Sherlock returns the slightest nod as an answer. The exchange of "are you allright?" and "fine, don´t bother" is as clearly readable as if the brothers had spoken to each other, and John is painfully reminded that he shared a similar wordless understanding with Sherlock. It appears to have been erased by his grief and his recent refusal to reconcile with his friend, and his heart clenches painfully at the remembrance of happier times.

Sherlock doesn't hesitate to sit down. He has calmed somewhat during their drive and knows he is more under control than earlier. Still, he feels drained, and to collect himself to face his brother with the appropriate amount of attention cost him most of his waning energy.

"Why did you call me?" he asks in an even voice, his tone one of confidence, not at all betraying his fatigue.

Mycroft stirs uneasily and pushes a laptop towards him. "This arrived earlier today," he says. With his right hand, he points out a heavy folder. "And this is the document in question."

Sherlock reads the email and looks up. "Is this all? A threat against you? Surely you must be used to them by now."

Mycroft just cocks an eyebrow and the detective frowns and returns his attention to the screen once more. When he looks up again, John detects something akin to confusion in his eyes.

"What´s wrong?" the doctor asks.

"An anonymous individual accuses my brother of being the driving force behind an illegal arms deal with Syria. He furthermore claims that Mycroft owns stakes of a company which was closely associated to the Morbier case and that he sold them shortly before Morbier was arrested. That puts him into the position that he must have known about and concurred with Morbier´s plan to place Europe´s financial markets in turmoil." Sherlock smiles mischievously at his brother. "Quite clever. I should have thought of something similar far earlier to prevent your annoying mothering, Mycroft."

His elder brother sends him a tense half-smile back. "What do you assume we are facing?"

"This seems to be fairly serious. Considering that several individuals do share an interest in jeopardizing your position, including the heads of the web, it might take some effort to find the originator of this message. Did you already have it traced back?"

"Yes, but to no result. It´s been sent from the laptop of a retired schoolteacher in Bristol who hasn't touched his device for the past three months since he has spent them in his holiday home at the Costa Esmeralda. The only fact we can be sure of is that the writer has a pretty good command of English."

Sherlock frowns. "Indeed. He´s had a proper education, too. And he seems to be a business man, for he is using the appropriate terms."

Mycroft pushes the file nearer. "This is the contract the blackmailer is talking about. It appears to have been signed by me."

Sherlock reaches for the file and flicks through it, frowning. "They faked your signature? How?"

Mycroft leans back. "Oh, you know how the web arranges to place moles in every business they find suitable."

Sherlock stares back and nods thoughtfully. He has had his fair share of dealing with the web in the past months and he knows how the organization bribes all sorts of professionals into its business. It seems not at all unlikely that they have ears and eyes at the ready in the British secret service and the British gouvernment and enough hands to interfere and execute the dirty work. The web´s members are usually skilled and very determined individuals – to find out who has participated in maiming Mycroft´s reputation will require time and effort. They might not have enough time left, though.

"How did it reach you?" he asks, already contemplating how to conduct an analysis of the document and the envelope it was wrapped in.

"In the mail," Mycroft answers. "Unfortunately, the envelope has already been destroyed." He unclenches his fingers and fixes his brother with a serious gaze. "As you have noticed, the dispatcher of the email is announcing that two more copies have been sent to both the Daily Mirror and the Sun. I think we can expect the media to be in uproar about the topic very soon."

The detective´s eyebrows twitch and he wrinkles his nose in concentration. "Which leaves us even less time for a proper examination."

"But what does this person want?" John chimes in. He has actually been sitting on the edge of his chair while listening to the brother´s conversation, a sense of anticipation overwhelming him. This is dangerous business and it concerns Sherlock as well as Mycroft. John feels his sense of protectiveness returning, in spite of him being annoyed that the further the conversation proceeds the further be will be drawn into the brother´s affairs all over again.

Mycroft regards him with a steady gaze and flicks dust from his immaculate suit. "Oh, it is not simply meant as blackmail," he offers lightly. "This person – or organization – wants to make as devastating an impact on my reputation as possible. I am actually not too keen to appear in the headlights, as you can imagine." He turns to face Sherlock. "I need your help, brother."

"Oh please!" An amused smile plays on the detective´s lips. "Since I would never have dared to hope that the first case I take up on my return would concern you, how could I refuse your plea?"

Mycroft smiles back drily. "I would actually prefer not to be involved in a case which is complicated enough to catch your attention."

John, who has continued to listen closely to the conversation, raises a hand. "I was thinking…" he starts and feels two pairs of piercing blue eyes fixing him. "Well, why now? Why would somebody threaten Mycroft´s position exactly at this moment? Isn´t it a bit funny that the email arrives the day Sherlock gives notice of his return?"

Mycroft nods. "You are right, that can´t be coincidence. We must be very careful not to fuel the suspicions of the media any further. I have already spoken to some of our media professionals. They are currently composing a statement…"

Sherlock interrupts him. "Which will probably be helpful to keep things under control." He hesitates and Mycroft, who notices that his brother has tensed, sends him a puzzled look. John sees the unease in Sherlock´s features, too, and knows instantly what his friend wants to say. Sherlock leans forward and looks at Mycroft with an uneasy gaze. He starts to speak, but John cuts in.

"A journalist from the Daily Mirror asked about Sherlock´s addiction. And your brother gave him all the details."

The detective nods. "He knew about the recent overdose and my former years. Moran must have fed him information. I didn´t want the colonel to gain advantage on me."

Mycroft´s eyes bore into Sherlock´s, and a moment of silence follows. The brothers simply look at each other, and John notices with bewilderment that Sherlock finally averts his brother´s eyes. The faintest tinge of red appears on his cheeks.

The elder Holmes takes a deep breath and lets his hands fall flat on the table. "Knowing you, you most certainly acted on temper rather than on deliberate planning," he states drily. "Let´s summarize: An anonymous blackmailer accuses me of spending government money on an arms deal with Syria. He also accuses me of being an associate of Morbier." Mycroft´s voice takes on a sharp note: "You just confirmed the media´s suspicion that you are a full-blown addict. Thank you very much, brother, this has been most helpful."

Sherlock stares back, flustered. "I couldn´t have known…" he starts.

"Oh, but surely you do know that retaining caution is never a bad idea when dealing with the tabloids," Mycroft chides him. But Sherlock does not rise to his schoolmasterly tone, as he usually would. Instead, he gazes into the void, a look of concentration on his features. He finally pushes the laptop nearer and fixes his gaze on the message again. When he emerges from the screen, he looks into his brother´s eyes.

"Our blackmailer has made a crucial mistake. He is using a most unusual sentence to end his message," he elaborates and turns the laptop toward Mycroft and John. They notice that the last sentence is not the official phrase used in business correspondence. It reads a rather antiquated "A concerned friend" instead.

Mycroft looks up and regards his brother´s frown.

"I´ve seen that before," Sherlock elaborates, "but I can´t remember where. Can you get me access to the data on all previous cases of blackmail to the government and possibly to the Secret Service?"

"Of course. I take it you would want a direct link you can access from home?"

"Yes. And please let me know as soon as possible when a new message arrives." Sherlock gets up, his eyes once again clouded while accessing his inward musings. "I will keep in touch," he adds and looks down at his brother. "We´ll better get home before the media rampage starts."

The elder Holmes nods and John can read their silent conversation again. This time, it is an exchange of "I am tired, brother" and "you know I trust you. Get some rest." John clears his throat and the siblings startle and refrain from adding whatever else they wanted to transport to each other. Mycroft gets up with a sigh and lifts laptop and file from the desk.

"About your guard…" he starts, and Sherlock shakes his head.

"He deserves some free time. Besides, I am on a case now."

"Very well." Mycroft doesn´t seem to be convinced, though, and shifts uneasily, as if wanting to add something, but John interrupts him.

"I´m not on a night shift today, so don´t worry," he says, which earns him a surprised look from Sherlock. John, who is deliberately not looking at the detective, sees Mycroft nod and flicking him a brief, but relieved smile and sighs inwardly. So much for not getting involved, he thinks. And so much for taking Mary out for dinner tonight. Must be something about his sense of timing, he tells himself bitterly. Moreover, he seems to be driven to the detective´s movements as a moth is to the light. Especially when knowing that the light is dangerous. But he won´t mention this to Sherlock, of course.

As the no-longer-very-faithful blogger follows the world´s only and recently returned consulting detective out through the grand salon, the tangible silence of the Diogenes Club is not in the slightest in danger of being interrupted.


	14. Fear and Love

Dr. Mary Morstan, addiction specialist and physician, prepares tea for her patient who is currently staring out of the living room window of 221C, looking up into the gloomy early April afternoon. She knows by the way his right clasps the crook of his left elbow tightly and by his recent short text with which he confirmed he will see her that he is far from feeling relaxed. He probably already regrets he has come, Mary thinks and smiles to herself. She has met Sherlock several years ago, and contrary to many of her colleagues found him not too difficult to read. Behind his aloofness and detached calm she spotted his sensitivity and loneliness right from the start and when they forged their agreement that she would not report him for stealing morphine from the clinic´s supplies they ended up not only being allies but very close on being friends.

She emerges from the kitchen, a tablet in hand and a smile triggered by the memory of the first months of dealing with a very reluctant Sherlock in rehab years ago. He is still turning his back to her, but she invites him to sit down nevertheless and, surprisingly, he just lets slip an exasperated sigh and sits, his hand still clasping his left arm.

"Still that bad?" Mary asks in a casual tone while laying out the cups and pouring the steaming liquid into them.

"Again," Sherlock states thoughtfully, his brow furrowed. "But I can´t afford this…" he angrily jerks his left arm out and regards the traces of recent injections with a stare of pure hatred. "to interfere with my work."

"You already picked up a case? So soon after announcing your return? Well, that´s good news!" Mary says, sending him her most charming smile. In fact, she is glad that things might get gradually better for the detective. She has high hopes that he will emerge from his recent experiences unscathed, but he has been far too desperate in the past three days. Actually ever since he decided to return to his old status as the world´s only consulting detective, she silently adds.

"No, it´s not," he snaps. "Mycroft has been threatened."

"Mycroft?" Mary has had her fair share of Mycroft´s abilities and influence and she can´t imagine anyone to be so foolish as to challenge the secret British government.

"Surprisingly, yes," Sherlock replies and fills her in on what he considers important for her to know. Mary wonders, not for the first time, how he can be so detached, especially when what he reveals to her concerns his own brother and himself. It occurs to her that this must have been the sole way he was able to deal with Moriarty: to void himself of all emotions and follow reason. From what she learned from John, Sherlock has lost control of his composure when he stood on the roof of St. Bart´s, ready to jump. He cried. Obviously, the act of sacrificing himself for his friend´s sakes and persuing the forces of the web has taken further toll on the detective. Mary suspects that though he was determined to push sentiment aside to be able to pursue the web´s main forces he has, to a certain extent, learned to accept his feelings. And the degree of caring he has achieved after sacrificing himself for his friend´s sakes is scaring Sherlock.

When the detective has ended his explanations, Mary cuts in. "You are scared. You are afraid of not being able to fix things, to fail. Especially John."

"I know what you want to tell me," Sherlock replies, letting go of the vice-like grip on his elbow and steepling his fingers under his chin. He frowns as he realizes what his right hand has been doing all along, his gaze dark and unreadable. "You want me to acknowledge that my fear of failure was one of the main factors which drove me towards the cocaine in the first place. But this time, a stupid mistake propelled me back to the drugs, albeit unwillingly. Isn´t that ironic?"

"You do blame yourself, Sherlock. But as far as I know you did everything you could to stop Moriarty, destroy the web´s influence," Mary replies. "You know that blaming yourself was another factor which triggered your using. Self-hate won´t help you. You must accept that you a, like we´re all, a human being which can fail. You are not omnipotent."

Sherlock nods, but he doesn´t reply. His gaze has again travelled into the distance and Mary detects determination and hardness in his eyes.

"You´re not with me," she says, softly.

"No, I´m not. Sorry."

She reaches out and touches Sherlock´s arm lightly.

"Nothing to be sorry about," she answers soothingly. "It´s only… We´ve talked about your addiction so many times and I am fairly certain you´ll make a full recovery from the episode with Moran. But I can see clearly that you are scared. This is nothing I have ever associated with you, being scared."

She hesitates and feels his gaze settle on her face, his nose wrinkled in irritation. Mary draws a deep breath. It has never been easy to confront Sherlock with his inner fears, many times he has just stomped out when she approached him and she fears he will be fleeing her again. But he still looks at her and nods approvingly at her sudden caution.

"There is something you wouldn´t tell," Mary continues. "Something you might not even remember. And it´s wearing you down. I would like to know what it is. Don´t you?"

His eyes, seconds ago brimming with curiousity, narrow and turn cold.

"There is nothing. I am perfectly under control," he replies evenly. He gets up, his large frame looming over her. "Thank you for the tea. I´m afraid I need to return to my research."

Mary gets up as well, not in the slightest being flustered by his abrupt manner.

"See you tomorrow, then," she says. "If you feel like talking, I am here, you know."

"There is nothing to talk about," Sherlock spits, turns and hurries from the flat.

Mr. Holmes, Mary thinks, there is something on your mind which might destroy the small amount of self-control you´ve attained. She wonders how long he can sustain to push away his obviously bad memories and whether she can be of any help to him at all.

* * *

John sits on Mary´s sofa, a glass of wine in his hand, feeling a bit uneasy. It´s not because of Mary who currently cleans the table of the remains of their dinner, it is because of Sherlock he is not quite enjoying himself. True, he has promised Mycroft to watch over Sherlock, but the detective remained rather insistent that he would be perfectly alright being left alone in their flat searching for clues on the blackmailer. Torn between staying and making up for his promise to take Mary out for dinner by cooking for her, John nevertheless lingered in 221B until Sherlock told him how pathetic he considered John´s performance of a caring friend to be. This was the last straw to make John leave.

Sipping his wine, he registers even the tiniest of Mary´s movements, the way she elegantly picks up the plates and glasses and how she steps lightly into the kitchen, her hair swinging over her shoulders. When she turns back to him again, she wears the warm smile he has come to love so much.

"Well, time to get back upstairs again, I guess," she says.

John puts down his glass and gets up. "Oh. Um. Well, I didn't want to stay long anyway."

She blinks at him. "Sure you did. You would be staying all night if I let you."

John stares at her, vexed, but then he laughs, draws nearer and carefully wraps his arms around her waist. "Would you like me to?" he asks, his mouth at her ear, inhaling her scent.

But Mary draws back, smiling. "We haven´t even kissed and you are asking me to stay the night?" she asks, a twinkle in her eyes. John smiles back, happily, and kisses her. It is far easier than he imagined, and she doesn´t flinch back, as he has feared she would every time he has thought of approaching her. He can even feel her smile while their kiss deepens. When they part, they are still holding on to each other, and Mary finally leans into John who has wrapped his arms tighly around her waist.

"You wanted to do this all week," she says mockingly.

"No," he replies. "Ever since I met you."

She looks up at him. "Really?"

"Really," he replies sincerely and clings to her as if a dark force was threatening to rip Mary from his embrace at any second. Nothing ever has felt so right to John as holding this beautiful woman close to him does and for all he knows the world might just have stopped spinning.

"John?" she startles him.

"Hm, yes?"

"As much as I would like you to stay, you have a promise to keep."

He draws back, suddenly angry. "Why is everything always revolving around Sherlock?" he asks bitterly, but Mary just smiles at him again and pushes a hand through his hair.

"You know exactly why," she says. "And you care, as much as you are denying it. Every time we talk, Sherlock is among our topics."

"Because you´re his therapist," John retorts.

"No, because he´s your friend," Mary answers evenly. "Now go back and keep your promise."

She pries his hands away from her hips and guides him to her door.

Not a minute later, John finds himself back in 221B, which is eerily quiet and dark. One more minute passes, and he is startled by a sharp, desperate cry from Sherlock´s bedroom.


	15. A Sting and a Message

_He shivers violently. The air he breathes is stale and chilly and he wonders where the sunny summer afternoon has disappeared to and why the sun is already setting, for the light has gone dim and gloomy, replacing the bright sky of moments ago. The ever-blowing wind he has learned to regard as a constant in his dreams has settled. Despite the cold, he is drowned in sweat. He wonders what happened to the hives, for the continuous calming humming of the friendly bees has died and he is surrounded by an unsettling quiet, his head aching witch an echo of their frantic buzzing._

_When he feels the prick, he absentmindedly slaps at the bee, though he knows that is has sealed its death sentence by stinging him. But the stinging sensation in his arm persists. Only now does he notice that he is not standing, but crouching, not on grass but on a floor of concrete. Two pairs of hands hold him down with force, a third grips his left wrist. He reasons he can´t fight the three men in his current state, but nevertheless he loathes himself for his weakness. One of them, a blonde in his fourties, draws nearer and looks straight into his face. Grey-blue eyes bore into sea-blue ones and he reads malice and satisfaction in them._

_The man flashes him a wicked smile and retrieves the needle from his arm, not bothering to stop the tiny drop of blood which leaves the injection site. "Your final dose today," his captor states. "A shame, really. You were such an attentive guest."_

_He feels his strength and fighting spirit waning and knows there is only one salvation left – that of the rush. But something doesn´t sit right. His hearts speeds up and he knows by the lack of oxygen in his lungs he has been delivered a dangerous, if not lethal dose. He lunges at the blonde man´s face with all the force he can muster, but it fades and he feels himself falling into a pitch-black abyss, blind and paralyzed, his heart beating an increasingly frantic rhythm._

_He doesn´t want to die this way, as he didn´t when he jumped and he is determined not to go down without a fight. A desperate cry escapes his lips. He is answered immediately by two strong, familiar hands on his shoulders. His own name is being called. There is no malice in the word, only concern and a sense of urgency, and he finally pries his eyes open, in spite of his dread on seeing his prison again._

Instead, his eyes fall on the familiar surroundings of his bedroom at Baker Street and on John, whose grip on his shoulders has softened and who tries to read him with his familiar ever-concerned, caring gaze. Instinctively, Sherlock attempts to wriggle free and the doctor drops his hands.

Both men stare at each other for a moment, Sherlock trying to figure out what happened and John mulling over how to approach him.

Sherlock shifts first, drawing the duvet which has slipped from his legs closer to his body. "To save you your question: I have been dreaming of dying," he explains. "I actually did ever since that day at St. Bart´s. But I am not dead yet."

John sends him a wry smile. "You are certainly not. Or else this must be a ghost playing the violin in our flat at three in the morning." His expression sobers. "You haven´t had too much sleep lately."

Sherlock regards him with a scathing look. "Oh, Dr. Watson in treatment mode. Just stop it, John."

"Stop what?"

"Assessing me. Questioning whether I am up to the task I set myself. Since you have made up your mind not to care about me anymore, I don´t see why you should fret over my condition."

John draws a heavy breath. "I never said I´d quit caring. I am not even sure I could, even if I wanted. But I am still raw and hurting and I don´t see how staying with you will make this any better."

Sherlock´s gaze travels away from John and the doctor knows his friend is trying to hide his hurt. He wishes desperately he could give Sherlock more credit for his actions, for rescuing him from Moriarty´s sniper, but he is still too agitated on being left behind to be able to act like an understanding friend would. Caring, though, he acknowledges, is a slightly different topic.

"You know, I have pondered so many scenarios what to tell you should you return against all probability. I hoped against hope you might come back and at the same time dreaded the thought. I never want to hurt so much again, Sherlock. Never."

"If you just let me explain…"

John raises a hand. "Please refrain from explaining anything to me. At least for the time being, ok? I don´t think I can accept any excuse for leaving me behind you can come up with at the moment."

Sherlock shifts uneasily, sending John a questioning look. "Still, you care," he states, the hint of a bigger question in his eyes, and John startles into a short, sharp laugh.

"Oh, unfortunately, yes. And I can see what your brother meant when he said that caring is not an advantage," he remarks, his tone dry.

"Does this mean you will help me removing the threat on Mycroft and pursuing Moran?"

"I´m here, aren´t I?" This is not a very specific answer, coming from a man who has never before been vague to Sherlock, but it is much better than any answer Sherlock has dared to expect from his doctor friend. He nods. "This is a good thing," he says.

Again, detective and doctor look at each other and they know there are a lot of things left unsaid. They have not reached a victory over their fears and hurt yet, but this truce is a first step towards something bigger, something more normal, and they both are aware of the change in their strained relationship.

John breaks the silence. "Speaking of your sleep – do you need anything to help?"

Sherlock sends him a mischievous look. "If your revenge consists of knocking me out without using force, then please get on with your plan," he says, and John smiles.

"Oh, that would only be my revenge for what you did at the Baskerville plant," he answers lightly and bathes in the sight of his friend flinching slightly at the remembrance. 

* * *

Later that night, John wakes with a start, his heart thrumming excitedly in anticipation of meeting Mary again. He is wide awake, listening to the familiar sounds of 221B and the sleeping city outside and finds himself wondering how fast his life has changed in the past two weeks. Once again, these changes are mainly due to Sherlock´s presence in his life. But he will not yet allow anything similar to thankfulness reach his heart, fate is more or less based on coincidence after all, is it not? With this conclusion, John turns in his sheets, and the peaceful silence of their flat surrounds him again, lulling him to sleep.

Peace is a most desirable condition. But peace, unfortunately, is not a condition several people in the world behind the walls of 221B do approve of.


	16. Staying Alive

The tenants of 221 Baker Street, and especially Sherlock, are granted only this one night of quiet before all hell breaks loose.

In the morning, they are beleaguered by an armada of sound trucks and an army of determined journalists who are salivating to get exclusive statements or coverage for their broadcasts on the detective. John spots not only the main TV stations in the throng, but private and international ones as well, and a crowd of tabloid reporters, some of them the Kitty Riley type. Sherlock notes this with disgust and snorts at the morning paper´s headlines which announce him as "Hat-Man returns", "Fraud fakes suicide" or "Holmedini rises from his grave". Most of the journalists have picked up on his remark on his addiction and speculate on his past and his current condition. The picture of his bruised features John suspected would make a wonderful front-page image has been used by nearly all of them.

John reads out several articles to Sherlock, who resumes his pacing, agitated that Mycroft has ordered him not to leave the flat until he has conferred with two PR consultants, which are currently on their way.

"This is peculiar," John remarks, who still sits at their kitchen table, sipping the last of his morning tea. The 'Sun' claims that your brother financed your heavy consume of cocaine and designer drugs through all these years."

"I never tried any designer drugs," Sherlock answers absentmindedly, only to jump up from the sofa a minute later and rip the newspaper from John´s hands. He frowns. "It says here that the source of the money is unknown. The author hints at the possibility that Mycroft pursued some unauthorized businesses to gain funds for me."

John looks up. "That´s utter rubbish," he states firmly.

But Sherlock´s frown has deepened. "No, this is serious," he says. "One of the arms deal contracts was intended to be sent to the 'Sun', remember? Now they claim that Mycroft facilitated my illegal activities with money he earned illegally. The campaign on his reputation has started." He stares out of their window, his gaze travelling to the street outside, and he frowns. "This is far more serious than I assumed," he mumbles.

"You certainly fuelled the press´ speculations," John remarks drily.

Sherlock whirls around, his eyes narrowing. "Don´t you see, John?" he asks. "Don´t you understand that whoever is behind this would use any rumour against me? By acknowledging the fact that I´ve been doing drugs I at least stand the chance to be one step in front of the tabloid´s speculations."

John sets his mug down. "If you say so. You are the genius here."

Despite his agitation, Sherlock flicks him a smile. "They could have labeled me a nymphomaniac or a criminal, but I distracted them – and at least I know what I´m talking about in case anyone wants any details."

Of course they are all dying to get the details, John thinks. It will irritate his friend to no extent, he knows. Well, probably Sherlock is at least right to assume that he has gained an advantage here. Hopefully, he will be able to forge a solid strategy with the expertise of the PR consultants.

* * *

Several hours later, after a long meeting with said experts, Sherlock has been advised what to say, when to say it, when to agree to an interview and when to appear in a broadcast. A tight schedule spanning the next fortnight including his TV appearances and meetings for interviews awaits him. He is ordered not to talk to any of the media people outside and to take one of the consultants with him whenever he appears in public. The PR consultant´s hope is that thanks to this strict approach most of the reporters lingering at the doorstep of 221 Baker Street will dissipate and start to use the official channels to reach the detective.

Sherlock and John are fed up with talking and listening by the time the PR consultants have left and look forward to the arrival of three very secretive and less talkative men sent by Mycroft who install several lacking security installments their home urgently needs.

When the secret service men leave in the late afternoon, the detective and his former blogger are positively glad to shut their door to the outside world, and they sag onto sofa and chair simultaneously, exhausted.

"High time they finished," John says. "I wonder why Moran has not yet tried to get to you."

"He´s not stupid, John." Sherlock stretches his legs and stifles a yawn. "As I said, he will not attack me in the open." His gaze travels towards the window. "It´s true, he could shoot us from the opposite roof or one of the flats over there. But I am quite positive that shooting me is not on his agenda."

John´s brows furrow. "Why are you so adamant about this?"

Sherlock´s gaze travels back to his friend, and he looks John in the eyes. "He wanted to break me, John. Hence the drugs. He was fixed on the idea that he could, in the public´s eye, degrade me to a fraud once more. Had I died by the speedball injection as intended, he would have spread the word that I committed suicide because I couldn´t cope with returning to the headlights after my faked first attempt on killing myself. That´s his revenge on Moriarty´s dead – to finish the consulting criminal´s masterpiece."

"This is sick. Who would believe you are that mad?" John exclaims.

"People did believe Richard Brook was harmless," Sherlock states matter-of-factly.

They are interrupted by the haunting tune of 'Staying alive'. John rolls his eyes in disgust, but Sherlock shushes him with a wave of his right hand. The doctor watches as the detective is listening intently, his frame tense, radiating annoyance.

"Yes, we did. No, thank you." Silence follows. Clearly Sherlock´s caller has several important things to transport, and now it is clearly the detective´s turn to roll his eyes. "Don´t be ridiculous, Mycroft," he snaps at last. "Do your maths. Madison and Miller and two guards make four people ready to follow me wherever I go. You actually think I will be able to draw any stunts?" Then he hangs in.

John´s lips quirk at his friend´s annoyance. He feels he could actually get used to these small incidents of brotherly banter again – and, moreover, to the excitement and danger waiting literally at their doorstep. Sherlock, oblivious of his amusement, sends him a dark glance as he tosses his mobile on the sofa and flings himself into his favourite chair.

"Mycroft sends his regards," he says. "He is impressed with your stamina, he said."

"Oh, he must be in a really bad mood if he feels the need to insult me as well," the doctor answers with a smirk.

Sherlock stares at him, his eyes darkening. "He gave me a lecture again on how to deal with the media." The detective slides further into the seat and looks at the ceiling. "We will feel like proper lords with all the entourage he sent us."

"Well, then you know how to behave," John says lightly. "Follow etiquette."

"That´s not funny, John," the detective answers, but the corners of his mouth quirk.

"As isn´t your ringtone," John replies and Sherlock startles.

"What about it?" he challenges, his eyes locking on John´s.

"It´s Moriarty´s. 'Staying Alive' by the Bee Gees, remember? I found it oddly ironic back at the pool. And considering your reaction after this incident, I can´t fathom why you would use it."

"Probably due to sentiment. Because I survived him," Sherlock replies. He remembers the pool only too well, and he will never forget weighing John´s Browning in his hands, suddenly a ton heavier with the implications of his decision to shoot, to take the consulting criminal down with him – as well as John. He recalls his confusion when Moriarty removed the threat on them by simply clicking his fingers and walking away as if nothing had happened. And he recalls his gruelling despair that the mastermind criminal might be planning to hurt John, and his subsequent relapse.

He smiles at the memory how fast his friendship with John has developed four years ago and folds his arms behind his head. "Or perhaps because I cherish the element of surprise," he states.

"You don´t honestly think the web will call you and beg 'Dear Mr. Holmes, please stop hunting us' – not everybody is as deranged as Moriarty was," John answers.

"Well, some people are chasing glowing rabbits, while others are chasing detectives," Sherlock replies drily and continues to concentrate on a hidden pattern the white ceiling reveals only to him.

Silence follows, and John ponders to turn the telly on. He has just decided to refrain from it because he is not to keen on watching the news, when Sherlock starts abruptly and jumps off his seat to grab his laptop from the desk and settle on the sofa.

"I knew it," he mumbles, lost in categorizing several strictly secret documents he has opened in mere seconds. "Charles Augustus Milverton. He is our 'concerned friend.'"

John just raises his left eyebrow as an answer.


	17. Rejected

"Isn´t it nice that the press is so predictable these days, dearest Sebastian?" The man who asks this question pushes down the latest edition of the "Daily Mirror", which from its front page blurts out "Hat-Man returns". He idly wonders what topic concerning the return of Sherlock Holmes the tabloids will pick up next and smirks at the thought that he has played a significant part in setting them on the track of what might develop into one of the biggest scandals of the past ten years. He takes a sip from his 15 year old Lagavulin single malt and regards his companion with a frozen smile which won´t quite reach his green eyes.

His counterpart ponders the reflections of the fire highlighting his Barolo, but doesn´t answer.

The older man watches him from behind his golden designer glasses, wary, not daring to interrupt his companion´s thoughts. Finally, his blonde counterpart swirls the red liquid languidly in his glass, watching the sparks of light dancing on the red wine.

"Look at this beauty, Charles," he says. "The people of the Piedmont consider him the king of all wines. It always reminded Jim of blood. A more than appropriate drink for a mastermind criminal, don´t you think?"

Charles Milverton nods. "Appropriate, yes. But he was far too deranged for my taste. Anyway, a shame…"

The younger man snarls and leans forward. "Don´t get sentimental on me. He was foolish enough to kill himself. And he let himself outsmart by our honoured detective."

"Who bereaved us of most of our sources of revenue," Milverton adds. "A shame, really, that he is not on our side, Sebastian."

"Do I sense admiration there, Charles?" Moran replies in a velvety voice, twiddling the stem of his wineglass between his fingers. "Jim admired him. I rather consider his existence a nuisance."

Milverton chuckles and Moran leans towards the bulky man, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Spare me your calculated approval," he hisses in a cold tone. "Holmes is still a threat to our safety. And he has yet to pay for Moriarty´s death. So don´t tell me he could ever have been useful to our organisation."

The last words are dripping with venom and Milverton´s plump and heavy features pale. But he collects himself quickly. "Why did you let him go, then?" he asks smugly, knowing perfectly well that he will aggravate his guest even more with his question.

Moran meets him with a cold stare. "I´m fairly sure he wasn´t able to walk with a speedball overdose in his veins," he states evenly.

Leaning back, Milverton regards the former sniper, mulling over his words. He laughs as realization hits him. "Oh, that was the plan."

"Exactly." Moran takes a sip of his wine and leans back. "Break him, make him beg and finally force him into suicide. Nothing new there, but quite effective." He heaves a breath. "A shame he survived." Another sip and Moran stares into space, a sarcastic smile on his lips. "I had heard so many things about him being a fighter and how relentless he is. But the drugs plus the persuasive powers of my men reduced him to a whimpering mess pretty quickly." He looks up at Milverton. "It was quite entertaining, actually, to watch him lose control and hear him beg. Much more than simply shooting him would have been."

A loud rumbling laugh emanates from Milverton´s wide ribcage. "You do love a challenge, Sebastian," he says and spreads out his hands. "See, now you´ve got one."

Moran stares into the fire, the nearly emptied glass still in his hand. The warm ember glow reminds him of a tiger he has shot years ago. Such beauty, sent into oblivion thanks to his greatest talent – to never miss a target. The unrelenting strength Holmes displayed during his captivity has reminded him of the wild, raw fury of a predator. Moran cherishes an opponent with brains and power. The greater the challenge of the hunt, the more rewarding it is to finally take down the prey, after all. He is actually not all too annoyed that Holmes escaped. It should be a most interesting hunt this time.

"It´s not too hard a challenge thanks to your good work," he tells Milverton. "Plus we might even hit two important targets. The media is only too eager to follow our lead. Cheers, Charles." Milverton, who knows from experience that this is as close as Moran will come to express gratitude, pours a small amount of the golden water of life into his tumbler.

"We do have a most powerful ally there," Milverton acknowledges and raises his glass. "You´re welcome, Seb. Cheers. To our dying detective." 

* * *

Breakfast is not at all the usual time detective inspector Lestrade finds himself visiting 221B. Today he is here on a mission and he hates it. Distractedly, he clings to the mug of tea John has presented to him several minutes earlier and watches Sherlock, who hides behind the recent edition of the "Guardian". It opens with a huge story on the Syrian civil war and a smaller one on the return of the consulting detective.

Sherlock must already have noticed the signs of Greg´s urgent departure from the Yard – most prominently a coffee stain which blatantly tells of his haste – and his nervousness, but so far he hasn´t even commented on Lestrade´s presence.

"Sherlock, Greg is here," John finally prods, sending the Yarder an exasperated gaze. The younger man drops the newspaper with a sigh and looks at Lestrade, wrinkling his nose.

"What is it? Murder? Abduction? Rape?" he asks, but his voice lacks the enthusiasm it is normally tinged with whenever he is being presented with a case.

Greg stares him down, feeling increasingly uneasy. "Nothing of the sort, Sherlock. Come on, you´ve worked it out already."

Sherlock straightens and holds the detective inspector´s gaze. "I want you to tell me," he says. "You must tell me officially anyway, don´t you?"

John looks at both men, not comprehending what they are up to.

Lestrade winces. He has not opted for this task, he has been sent, and he can´t think of news more crushing to transport to his former consultant. But there is nothing he can do about it, just as there wasn´t when he was assigned to arrest Sherlock. He heaves a breath. "You are no longer allowed to follow either me or any other inspector of the Yard on crime scenes. As you are a civilian, you are not even allowed to enter the Yard except for inquiries on a case concerning yourself, as a witness or as a suspect. In short, you will no longer be working for us."

Sherlock doesn´t stir, but John observes that his grip on the newspaper hardens and the crease between his brows deepens.

"Why?"

Lestrade rakes a hand through his hair. He has watched Sherlock closely, too, and he knows that however unaffected the detective might appear, he is shaken to the core by Lestrade´s message.

"Guess," he answers simply and Sherlock sends him a gloomy look.

"The drugs. Your superiors have dug out my medical and police records."

Greg nods. "And they decided to stall any further activity on your part to not get involved in the looming scandal."

Sherlock laughs short and drily. "The scandal of my brother assumedly financing my habit with money he obtained illegally?" he asks.

"Obviously. Look, they didn´t say you will never be allowed back. They want to sort things out. An investigation has already been set up…"

But Sherlock stops Lestrade by slamming his right hand on the table. "This can take ages," he says. "And you know very well that several facts on said records don't actually speak for me as a law-abiding citizen."

"I do. I just wanted to let you know that not everything´s written in stone yet," Lestrade replies.

"Nothing ever is," Sherlock answers, getting up and heading to his room. He glances back, displaying a hardness in his eyes which surprises John.

"Please excuse me, Lestrade. I am due for an interview with the "Independent" and I need to talk to my brother." He stalks out and leaves Greg and John behind.

"He really doesn´t take it well," the policeman mumbles. John nods. "Which was to be expected. Thank you Greg, for telling him." He looks the detective inspector in the eyes and reads the same concern in them he is experiencing.

Greg shakes his head slightly. "I wish things were different," he remarks.

"Well, they are not," John replies evenly. "In fact, we are in a real mess now. I only hope it will not wear him down completely."

* * *

In his room, Sherlock removes his dressing gown and retrieves a fresh shirt from his wardrobe. His mind is racing. Everything is deteriorating very rapidly and he needs to be even faster and more precise than ever – in his deductions as well as in his decisions. He shouldn´t be aggrieved that Scotland Yard has shut him out, he tries to convince himself. To work for the Yard can´t possibly be more important to him than working for any other client. There are enough private cases out there he can take on, he could even work for Mycroft now and again. No, delete that, he will not work for but with his brother. So, the Yard is not at all relevant to his work. Why, then, is he furious, no disappointed, that its officials have decided to ban him?

He really can´t afford the time now to reflect on the reasons for how he is feeling, he chides himself. Hurt pride and disappointment won´t help Mycroft. Better to get out of here and straight to business. The game is on, whether the Yard does want him or not. Nevertheless, the hollow feeling in his chest persists.

He leaves his room in a whirlwind of swishing coat and vibrating mobile, calling out to John that he will meet PR consultant Frank Madison in the taxi outside and dashes down the stairs.

Nestling into the taxi´s rear bench, Madison at his side, his forehead touching the window, he feels his mobile vibrating again, announcing a message. When Madison starts to explain where they are going and who they will meet, Sherlock isn´t aware of a single word. His attention is solely fixed on the small screen.

If only he would already know a way to stop what is coming. But this is the same futile thought which nagged at the back of his mind at the beginning of his last confrontation with Moriarty.


	18. Humming About Nothing

Questions. Extremely dull and intimidating questions. Why people would want to know all these boring details about their fellow human beings is far beyond Sherlock´s comprehension. Still, he sends the presenter a tight smile and explains why he prefers to go through London by taxi instead of using the tube.

He doesn´t listen to the audience´s lukewarm applause and leaves, weary with the tediousness of having presented a softened, more sociable self to numerous cameras and thousands of viewers.

Outside, Madison and Miller grab his elbows simultaneously, chattering away at him, but he shrugs them off, hasting to one of the back entrances where he desperately crumbles in his pockets for a cigarette. The mild April night is bright, a full moon shining in a rare cloudless sky, and he remembers a similar mild night at his family home, when Mycroft cooked him dinner and told him that he would not be safe back again in London yet.

He takes a first drag, inhaling deeply and blowing out the smoke languidly, finally relaxing. He barely listens to the PR experts who are, quite politely, analyzing his answers and attempt to advise him on how to act more compliant the next time he is being interviewed. He couldn´t care less about what they are telling him.

He´s already had enough of talking, of conferring with his consultants and of being scrutinized by the public. If only John was here to give him advice, to lighten his mood. He would gladly listen. Perhaps they would even be able to share a laugh about the absurdities of daily life and the media. John would understand that he doesn´t want to be in the headlights. These people definitely don´t.

Sherlock butts out his cigarette and looks up to the moon. It is the same familiar satellite he stared at from his Paris flat, from Morbier´s house in Antwerp, from his hut in the Himalayan, reminiscing moonlit nights at Baker Street when he played violin and John slept soundly upstairs. It´s the same moon which lightened the streets of Delhi and which he was shut off from in the disused coalmine Moran held him hostage.

He doesn´t need to know more about the solar system than that the moon is fixed to the earth´s proximity by the earth´s gravity. As John is to him. As he is to John.

* * *

 

John and Mary cuddle on Mary´s sofa and watch the Gerald Norman show, where Sherlock is currently faced with the unforeseen question on what he thinks about magician´s skills and how he has staged his suicide so efficiently. As this is a topic John does not in the slightest want to hear about, he carefully draws his arm from behind Mary´s back and steps into the kitchen to fetch another beer.

He smiles at the memory of the earlier evening, when the two of them somehow ended up on the carpet, in a heap of shed clothes and tangled limbs and he yawns, a familiar and very welcome kind of exhaustion flooding his body. When he returns from the kitchen, he lingers a second in the doorway, watching Mary – his woman, he thinks, beaming – concentrating on the screen, her legs drawn up to her chin, her brows wrinkled, her eyes following every movement on the screen attentively.

"Oh come on, he shouldn´t do this," she exclaims suddenly, and John draws nearer and sits down next to her again, his arm sneaking around her waist. He hears only the second part of the chat-show host´s question, and he frowns.

"…started with the cocaine, what was the reason?"

Mary leans closer to John and shakes her head slighty. "Sherlock hasn´t even told me. How can this stupid bloke assume that he would speak about this?" she asks.

"I don´t think this question was on the agenda," John answers. He has already noticed the gloomy look Sherlock sends the presenter and how his whole posture has stiffened with every word.

"Not relevant," the detective says, staring daggers at Norman.

The presenter´s false smile deepens. "But I think our audience would like to know…"

"I said your question is not relevant," Sherlock answers in his most definite voice. "I think we agreed on your asking me why I prefer to take the taxi instead of the tube."

"Oh, but we all want to know why you took to drugs, it is so much more emotional," Norman replies, spreading out his arms to the audience, displaying his plastic smile.

"I don´t agree considering how many people get emotional about London Transport," Sherlock answers coldly.

Norman regards him with a stare, his smile fading, but shrugs and spreads out his hands again: "Well then, why does a genius like you prefer taxis to the tube?"

"Because they are silent. I can´t think on the tube. It´s too crowded, too noisy and too hot."

"But surely your colleague, Dr. Watson, would talk to you on your way to crime scenes," Norman prods.

"No, he wouldn't, since he is no longer my colleague."

John winces. True, it was him who told Sherlock he would no longer accompany him on cases. But to see this fact confirmed by his friend on television is a different subject. Mary, who realizes how shocked John is by Sherlock´s remark, runs her hand softly over his arm.

"You should probably have accompanied him," she says. "It would make things easier for Sherlock and it would, more than likely, keep him from making this sort of mistake."

"Probably," John grumbles. He is far from admitting that Mary is right, even more so from admitting that he is worried. What the hell, Sherlock was always apt to get into trouble anyway. But dealing with the media is a different matter, and so far the public´s perception of the detective is not very positive, except for those who openly claim they "believe in Sherlock Holmes".

John stares out of the window, where a tiny ray of moonlight falls into the flat. He remembers a moonlit night in summer, when Sherlock returned from one of his cases, a large gash in his left arm from scraping a fence he had attempted to jump. John stitched and bandaged the wound and they talked until the detective succumbed to the fatigue following his adrenaline high and the administration of painkillers. They actually spoke of their youth and Sherlock was more open than ever before in revealing several facts about his relationship with his father and Mycroft. Their friendship took a big leap that night and John found his loyalty to the assumed freak confirmed. That special night was a revelation to John on how much they needed each other.

When Sherlock left him wandering among the living, alone, broken with grief, John only remembered how much he had come to rely on their friendship. When Sherlock came back, he deliberately refused to acknowledge that the detective needed his close support as well.

As much as any moon needs its orb in close distance, John muses. It is as undeniable a truth as the laws of gravity, really.


	19. Searching the Flower

"I must say, I am greatly disappointed." The man who sits opposite Mycroft folds his hands and sends him a grave look. "Not so much of the fact that you obviously tried to gain personal profit with illegal businesses, but more of the ends and means as to why you acquired them."

Mycroft just cocks an eyebrow. "Please allow me to point out that your disappointment is solely based on rumours, Henry. I am more than surprised that you put more trust into the tabloids than in my word."

"Oh, but you know very well that the tabloids can present the contract for an illegal arms deal which is signed by you."

"And you really think I would be stupid enough to leave clear evidence of illegal activities?"

"On purpose, yes. To distract from more important issues you would want to hide."

Mycroft reaches out for his brandy. "Too much honour, Henry," he replies in a mocking tone.

The other man nods. "Perhaps. Let´s say if I knew anyone who could fool not only me but the Prime Minister and the Queen at the same time, it would be you."

Mycroft chuckles drily. "That would be a challenge, even for me."

His counterpart pours himself another brandy and thoughtfully swirls the golden liquid in his glass.

"Concerning your word, it is only valid as long as it is delivered honestly. Unfortunately, I can´t detect much honesty in your actions as described by both the newspapers and our internal reports. I am very sorry that I must tell you there will be an interrogation. I understand that you need some time to prepare for the questioning. A few days off duty might help. Tomorrow would be a fitting date to start your leave. But refrain from leaving the country, please."

"Very well." The elder Holmes grips the handle of his ubiquitous umbrella tightly. "You will find me either in London or at our family´s home in Oxfordshire. For now, I need to get back to the Russian ambassador, I´m afraid."

"Oh, certainly." His counterpart rises and regards the elder Holmes sternly.

"Good afternoon. And - Mycroft?"

Mycroft turns, his expression blank.

"I sincerely hope we are really only dealing with rumours. To lose you and your abilities would weaken our organizations considerably."

The elder Holmes nods, curtly, and leaves, for once not swirling his umbrella.

He has just passed the door of his superior´s office when his mobile blinks.

"Where are you? Need to talk."

The Ice Man still smiles while he boards his sleek black Jaguar. "Exactly the right timing, dear brother," he mutters under his breath.

* * *

Lestrade is getting increasingly annoyed with the ample text messages he receives from a certain, very alive Sherlock Holmes. He has tried to ignore them for the past three days and he for sure he will not answer them. Sherlock has asked him for access on data on the late Health Minister´s suicide. But Greg can´t grant him admission to classified information, especially after the Yard has shut Sherlock out completely. When the detective inspector´s phone rings, displaying all too familiar digits, he picks up, grumbling and determined to tell the detective off.

"No way, Sherlock," he states firmly.

There´s silence on the other end and Greg can imagine the scowl on his friend´s face.

"Lestrade, I need the information. Milverton is the one who threatens Mycroft. He was involved in the blackmail of the late health minister. I need to learn more about him."

"And you intend to get me dismissed," Lestrade answers.

"Your job will not be jeopardized," Sherlock replies. "Just tell me the password and I will claim I hacked it, should any of your unimaginative colleagues ever take the effort to inquire."

Greg sighs. "You can break into pretty much every system if it pleases you. Why the heck do you need the password?"

"Because I can´t get it through Mycroft. Time is running out, Lestrade. Please – I need your help."

Baffled, Greg stares at his mobile as if it had grown ears and eyes. "You are actually begging for my help?"

Silence again. Greg listens to the detective clearing his throat. "Desperate times call for desperate measures," he states drily, and Lestrade is instantly reminded of a younger and very ill young genius, out on drugs, who pleaded for his aid. How can he refuse to support Sherlock, especially when he still feels as if he has failed the detective, first during his battle with Moriarty and recently in not speaking up for him when the bureaucrats of the Yard discussed his qualification to work with the police?

"3107ABJ" he says with a sigh, "but you it´s your sole responsibility should anybody find out."

"Thank you, Greg," the detective answers and Greg detects more than a hint of relief in his voice.

What the hell is he up to this time; Lestrade asks himself. In fact, he can recall only two or three incidents when Sherlock asked for something and thanked him in the same conversation. He flips the mobile in his hand back and forth and sinks further into his office chair, hoping that the desperate times Sherlock has mentioned can be turned into good times soon.

* * *

Mycroft expects his brother in the Diogenes Club. It is funny, Sherlock muses as he takes his seat, how much he cherishes the silence of the great hall. He would never consider to take up so boring a pastime as joining a club, as he deems this British tradition far too conservative for his taste. Nevertheless, Mycroft has obtained access for him to the Diogenes a few years ago, and has subsequently found Sherlock curled up in one of the cushioned chairs, deep in thought and more relaxed than he usually presents himself when both of them meet.

Mycroft scrutinizes Sherlock´s pallid features, and the younger man regards him with a look which clearly tells him to stop deducing. Sherlock does appear as calm and aloof as ever, but Mycroft is not fooled by his professional mask. He has instantly picked up on tiniest signs of the agitation Sherlock feels when he is extremely frustrated and which he is at present desperately trying to hide. In fact, Mycroft detects a shift in his brother´s demeanor which reminds him of the times when Sherlock shut him out forcefully. It signifies a lingering dark mood. Mycroft has learned to take this threat very serious and, in several instances, to even fear.

Fortunately, these days of open hostility are over. The siblings haven´t discussed how to proceed in dealing with the media, but they share a mutual understanding that Sherlock will take the brunt of the tabloid´s rage, thus covering Mycroft´s position and allowing him enough leeway for his own investigations.

Mycroft is still concerned how the high amount of stress put on his still recovering brother will affect him. But he refrains from voicing his thoughts. There are more pressing matters to discuss.

"You are sure about Milverton?" he asks. "Isn´t he the man who did presumably blackmail the late health minister?"

"And who presumably murdered him, as well," Sherlock answers, and for the splint of a second Mycroft sees concern and fear shining in his brother´s eyes.

"He has signed all his messages with the same sentence," Sherlock elaborates. "Obviously, he is very much fixed on his habits. This one is one of them." He leans closer toward his elder brother. "As he seems to be very thorough in his work, it´s highly probable that he keeps files on his victims at his manor."

Mycroft steeples his fingers. "According to our information, he is the kind of person who gloats in his success, yes. He would certainly regard the data on his victims as his trophy and hide it at home, where it is both safe and easily accessible." He looks up. "What are you up to?"

"Blackmail him," Sherlock answers lightly. "I´ve come to you to ask for a backup, dearest brother."

The secret British government nods. "You´ll have it. When?" Sherlock tells him, and Mycroft refrains from further questions. Half of Sherlock´s plan appears to be not half legal, and the elder Holmes feels no desire to get involved in yet another action which could add up to the recent rumours on him. As Sherlock talks, he can´t rid himself of the impression that his baby brother has learned several traits during his undercover mission with Morbier´s people. There´s always been a dark side to Sherlock, and Mycroft has noticed a slight shift in him ever since he came back.

John´s presence could help to hold Sherlock back from the pull of dark forces, but the doctor so far has shown no interest to support his former flatmate like he did two years ago. Without John´s help, Mycroft muses, Sherlock might very easily shut himself off from the real world again.

Finally, Sherlock leaves after Mycroft has reassured him of a suitable backup for his scheme. He watches him go, still unsure whether he should actually have talked about his observations. With a sigh, he takes a large swig from his whisky, retrieves his mobile and calls Anthea. There are still so many important things to take care of.

* * *

Over the road from Appledore Towers, a very stately, ancient Hampstead manor, Sherlock stops and takes a last draw of his cigarette. The tiny glow lights up and dies down in a strangely soothing rhythm. Sherlock regards the still glowing stub with a fleeting thought how hard it is to quit smoking. Not that he currently wants to quit, as the cigarettes still work for him as a very poor replacement for the drugs. Perhaps, when all this is over, he will finally come clean properly. It would be sensible anyway, considering how much the past three months and his past years might have already taxed his organism.

When all this is over… He snorts and throws the cigarette butt away, small sparks of red dancing on the tarmac. He is haunted by the visions of a safe future, tortured by hope, and still, three years later, caught in the web of danger and unsolvable chaos.

A biting breeze rustles the hedges which surround the manor, promising a showery April night. Sherlock adjusts his scarf more tightly and turns his coat collar up. It might help to impress Milverton if he looks a bit mysterious, he justifies his action to a non-present John. It might also help to appear very determined, so he straightens up and crosses the street with long deliberate strides to meet Charles Milverton.


	20. Confused by Smoke

"Mr. Holmes! The great consulting detective! What gives me the honour of your visit? Please take a seat!" The man who greets Sherlock is expensively clad, wearing a gold watch and golden glasses, and excrutiatingly jovial. His plumpness is the result of too many good meals and an expensive taste in alcoholic beverages. The tiny blood vessels in his grey eyes and of his nose are showing and his charming smile doesn´t quite reach his eyes.

Sherlock remains standing. "I am positive what I have to say will not take too much of your time," he replies.

"Oh, is that so?" Milverton asks. He sits behind a heavy oaken desk, which is cluttered in brown envelopes, engineering drawings and newspapers. Sherlock spots the "Guardian" with the cover story on the Syrian civil war from two days ago on top of one of the piles and winces, for the smaller story on his person on the same page displays the disgusting photograph of him wearing the deerstalker. He notices, too, that the desk is strictly organized, as is the whole room. None of the furniture appears to be placed at random, even the wastebasket seems to have never left its destined place, for it is buried deep into the fibre of the lush, thick Persian carpet. Obviously, Milverton is a man fixed on habit. The fact that he is at home at this time of day, as Sherlock expected, is further proof to this theory.

Good. This should set him at an if even so slight advantage, the detective thinks and shifts a bit nearer towards the desk, straightening up.

"I would loathe keeping you from your business," he states, his eyes narrowing.

Milverton leans back. "Why, then, are you visiting my humble abode?" He gestures towards the expensive interior of his study. "I take it that you time is limited, too. You have had a lot to discuss with the media lately, after your miraculous return."

"Certainly." Sherlock still hovers over Milverton´s table, deliberately intruding his personal space, picking up one of the brown envelopes and twitching it in his hands.

Milverton´s gaze follows him closely, but the man doesn´t stir. "I take it the matter is important, then? Is it connected to a case? Surely a private one, since Scotland Yard has cut all connections to you."

Sherlock frowns. Lestrade has informed him that the Yard will no longer allow him on cases only two days ago. Since then, he has spent most of his time with people from the media, and Scotland Yard is yet due to announce its decision publicly.

"A private case – you could say that, yes," he acknowledges.

Milverton gets up and walks over to a small cabinet from which he retrieves two glasses and a crystal decanter. "You know, this was to be expected. The Yard is full of bureaucrats who follow their rules by the book." He hands one of the glasses to the detective, still not fazed by their height difference and Sherlock´s sinister gaze, and smiles. "Please. Be my guest. I will answer all your questions as soundly as I can."

"That would not stretch very far," Sherlock answers. "You make a living from blackmail and murder, after all."

Milverton turns to face him, decanter in hand, looking puzzled. "Beg your pardon?"

Sherlock idles towards the window, fingering the empty glass in his hand, apparently deep in thought. "I can be wrong. But usually I am not." He swirls around and fixes Milverton with his intense blue eyes. "Brad Yardley. Bob Nelson. Walter E. Heathersand. They are all dead. Before they died, they received some very disturbing news. Disturbing, for all of them had a weak spot. Yardley was a soccer professional. He was gay. Nelson aspired leadership of the Tories. And Heathersand was Britain´s health minister before he was found with a very unhealthy amount of lead in his body. I don´t believe in coincidence nor do I believe in fate but I do believe in facts, Milverton."

Milverton is sending Sherlock an uncomprehending gaze. "And where do you think do I come into the equation? Are you implying that I am running around, shooting VIPs?"

Sherlocks eyes darken. "Of course you don´t do it yourself," he says. "You have your people."

Milverton takes a sip from his drink. "This is insane."

"This system is, yes. And you have become lightheaded with your success. If I remember correctly, this is actually what Morbier was complaining about – that certain leading members of the web were getting far too careless."

At the mentioning of Morbier´s name Milverton´s smile fades for a second, but he composes himself quickly and sits down again. "As interesting as talking to you is, I must ask you what you want. I have business to attend to," he states cooly.

Sherlock slams the glass down on the wooden surface and hovers over Milverton with a ferocious ice-blue stare. "I am not asking you to refrain from your inner needs and stop prying on my brother and me, as I understand very well that you can´t change what you are," he says. "But a man who is not resorceful enough to use different closing phrases in his emails to the victims of his attempts on blackmail will most certainly fail to erase the evidence on his deeds efficiently. Sometimes only a minute detail can send an offender to jail for life, you know." Sherlock straightens, his eyes boring into Milverton´s.

His counterpart doesn´t answer. Instead, Milverton fixes his gaze on a small, humming insect which has somehow found its way through a window left ajar. He frowns as the small creature settles on his desk, next to his hand, and with a surprisingly swift motion slams one of his bulky fists, which is decorated by a huge signet ring, down on the bee, smashing it.

He looks up with a smile of satisfaction. "Bloody nuisance, these wasps," he says. "I´m allergic, you know. What did you just say? I got distracted."

Idiot, Sherlock thinks. Can´t even tell a bee from a wasp. The man repels him more with every minute he is forced to spend in his company.

The same instant an acrid smell and the ringing of the fire alarm startles the two men.

Milverton springs from his chair, pacing toward a door to his left, before he stops and goes back, picking up his phone in the process. Sherlock, who has watched him closely, has already opened the door, when the older man calls him back.

"It´s nothing", he says. "My staff just informed me that somebody must have left a pan on the oven. Please, let´s continue our pleasant conversation."

Sherlock shakes his head. "It has been very enlightening talking to you, Milverton. I dearly hope to catch up on our topic the next time we meet." With a dramatic swirl of his coat he is gone.

* * *

"Everything fine, lad?" The voice which startles Sherlock as soon as he has passed the entrance to the manor´s grounds is familiar and friendly.

"Fine, Robson. Good work," he replies. In fact, Robson was perhaps a bit slower than John would have been with triggering the fire alarm, but the main point is that the old trick worked.

"Come on then, I´ll drive you home," Mycroft´s agent offers, but Sherlock shakes his head. The image of Milverton´s signet ring haunts him, and he´s feeling increasingly uneasy and nervous. He wouldn´t be a very tolerable company for Robson, and he desperately needs to think and calm down. Walking will help, he knows. The image of the ring intrudes his inner vision once again, and he closes his eyes and wipes one hand over his face, puzzled to feel sweat covering his forehead. He staggers and instantly feels Robson´s hands on his arms, steadying him.

"Easy lad," the agent soothes. "Come on, let´s get you into the car."

Sherlock, still completely at a loss on what is wrong with him, shakes Robson off and huddles closer into his coat. "Don´t bother. I´ll walk home."

"Are you sure? It´s quite a way, and it´s late." Robson asks. Sherlock smirks, for Robson is one of the few of Mycroft´s people who share some sort of private code with him to indicate his brother´s current level of worrying. It seems to be pretty high tonight.

"I am sure. Don´t worry – I just need to think," he replies, and Robson, whose scrutinizing gaze has not left Sherlock´s features since the agent held him steady, nods and retrieves his gun.

"Take this with you, then. And good luck."

Sherlock accepts the weapon and nods. "I´ll be home in about two hours. If not, will you lead the rescue team?"

Robson, who remembers several instances Mycroftlet him tail his younger brother, rewards Sherlock´s dry humour with a twinkle in his eyes. "Your brother would kill me if I left you defenceless." The elder man pauses. "He would also kill me if you hurt yourself."

"I know. I won´t." Their eyes lock and Robson nods and gets into the car. He is gone in an instant, and Sherlock is left alone in the vacant street, the light of the moon blocked by the dark clouds.

It is starting to drizzle, but the detective doesn´t take notice of the moisture as he starts walking, feeling increasingly nervous in spite of carrying a gun and being shielded by his bulletproof coat. The signet ring. Where has he seen it before? Why, for the life of him, can´t he remember?


	21. Disturbing Memories

"Sir? Robson reports that your brother refused to go back to Baker Street by car. He said he preferred to walk."

Antheas soft voice interrupts Mycroft´s musings. He frowns slightly at the image of his still recovering sibling walking the streets of London on his own in the middle of the night, but refuses to consider possible consequences. He has more important matters to attend to.

"Thank you, Anthea. Could you please call Robert Mulech for me and put him through?"

"Of course, sir. His private extension?"

"Yes, please. Oh, and Anthea?" She hesitates and looks back at him with her most charming smile.

"Get me the files on the latest media scandal concerning his trust and Scotland Yard."

* * *

The shortest way back home leads over the vast, grassy plain of Hampstead Heath. It is not a route any sensible London citizen would prefer to take this late in the evening, but Sherlock is armed and has never been worried about walking the capital´s streets in the night anyway.

He keeps on walking, the image of the signet ring still puzzling him, when he notices movement beneath one of the street lamps.

He knows what kind of person he will meet there, and he finds himself drawn towards the spot as if an irrestistable magnetic force was pulling at him.

When he retreats into the shadows of the park, he is holding a small, rustling package tightly in his hand.

He strides through the dark with his usual long, elegant steps, fingering the bag, when suddenly, overwhelmingly, everything falls into place.

* * *

_He´s drifting through snow. The small crystals enwrap him with unbearable softness, but they don´t provide warmth but ensheath him with tiny pricks of cold and he shivers, the hard, unfriendly ground providing no solace from the neverceasing downpour of ice. His eyes are closed, but he is no longer sleeping, only trying to shield himself from reality and to block out fear and desperation. Mycroft would have found him already after so long a time, had he any clue on where to search, and Sherlock senses that his time in Moran´s hands is limited. The shudders intensify and he groans as he shifts and touches the concrete floor with a heavily bruised part of his torso._

_He barely hears the door open, but he can´t possibly miss the heavy footsteps of two men approaching._

_There are no words, no warning, no preamble. Only a vicious kick to his abdomen. A heavy blow to his chest, close to the solarplexus, follows and his breath catches while he is struggling to get up and tense his muscles to diminish the damage. His body is wracked by heavy coughing and he can´t react fast enough to fend off the man who slings his arm around his throat, cutting off his windpipe. He soon looses all strength to lash out on his attackers and avoid the following blows. His vision is slowly fading but he is still not willing to give in to the fatigue which threatens to engulf him._

_Finally, the two brutes release him and he crumbles down onto the floor, rolling to his side, his knees drawn up, his arms wrapped protectively around his gaunt frame. But there is no escape from his tormentors. A strong hand grips his dark locks, pulling his head back, and gruff fingers trace his cheekbones, his adam´s apple, his clavicles._

_"Oh, you really are a piece of art," the man whispers. "I wish we had more time together – would be so much fun."_

_"Come on, leave him," the other man says. "You know what the boss said."_

_A last touch of fingers on his lips and his tormentor releases his grip on his hair. "Goodbye then, Sleeping Beauty," he says. "Perhaps if you behave yourself we might be allowed some time together."_

_He desperately tries to appear calm, but his shaking limbs give him away, and the men leave the room, laughing._

_He listens to their retreating footsteps and finally dares to open his eyes. Time passes as pain is flowing in waves over his battered body. He should probably better move, but he can´t order his limbs to obey. So he just curls up, the cold floor a dire and far less reassuring presence as the sofa at Baker Street. He idly wonders what his former home might look like aftre his two-year absence and slowly drifts back into a state of semi-consciousness._

_When the door opens again, he nearly fails to notice the man who approaches and hovers over him. When he eventually pries his eyes open, he meets his enemy´s gaze with his most intimidating stare._

_The man just laughs. "A very convincing performance, Holmes. I bet you could kill me by shooting daggers at me like that." He languidly plays with a small object, and Sherlock feels shudders of anticipation run over his spine as he realizes it is a syringe – ready for injection as all others before were. If only Moran would hand it to him and he could soothe his pain with the anaestesizing effect of the cocaine. But the Colonel just continues to watch him, his face unreadable._

_"You know I do wonder to what extremes you would go to get another hit," Moran offers. "One of my men considers you a piece of art. He is dying to touch you, you know. It´s not really too much to ask, a kiss for a hit, is it? I´d imagine you did stupid things to get your stuff when you ran out of money."_

_"I didn´t. Wealthy family, remember?"_

_Moran smirks. "With a not very patient patriarch. I bet he cut your allowance at some point to chase you back into the arms of your loved ones, to force you to crawl back to his doorstep."_

_Sherlock closes his eyes, briefly. He remembers his father´s fury when he found out about the drugs and Mycroft´s smugness and diverse futile attempts to help him._

_"What do you really want?" he asks Moran through clenched teeth. Moran crouches next to him and grabs some curls of his unruly dark hair. "An apology. You are responsible for Jim´s death. Apologise."_

_Sherlock snorts. "He shot himself, not I."_

_A sharp tug at his hair, and Sherlock´s head is flying back, pain clawing at his skin._

_"Do. Apologize," Moran orders, hissing. "Or I´ll let you rot – without another hit."_

_Sherlock pants. His whole body is aching and he longs desperately for the soothing sensation of the drug, for being transported out of his dungeon, if only for minutes. Withdrawal makes him weak and vulnerable, and complying to Moran´s order seems the logical thing to do._

_The colonel yanks at his curls once more and Sherlock nearly cries out in pain. Teeth clenched, he mutters an apology he doesn't feel in the slightest. But the grip on his hair doesn´t soften. "Not like this," Moran orders. "On your knees. Say: I am very sorry, dear Jim. Clearly."_

_White-hot rage washes over Sherlock´s whole being, and makes it nearly impossible for him to push himself to his knees and speak Moran´s words out audibly. A third and fourth time the Colonel forces him to repeat the phrase, each time demanding him to speak up, before he finally releases him and hands him the needle together with a rag._

_Sherlock is too busy fighting tears of humiliation to notice that the liquid is neither the same amount nor the same colour it has been in the past days of his captivity. His sole desire is to shoot the substance into his veins and escape, to transport himself to a place where the cruelty of his captor can´t reach him._

_It is only when he pulls the needle out that he realizes the rush is different this time. Instead of brimming energy and a rapidly increasing heartbeat he feels as if he were falling into a bed of soft cloth while his thoughts start to drift and his muscles relax. Tiredness washes over his body, as the pain of his injuries is finally blocked out._

_Fuck, he thinks, and his gaze falls on Moran, who fidgets with a large signet ring he wears on his left hand. The Colonel watches him closely, finally nods with a vile smile and gets up._

_"I thought you might cherish a change. Captivity is so boring, after all."_

_Moran leaves and Sherlock drifts away. Although he has long passed the point to care what drugs the criminal hands him, he has no intent to get high on heroin. Withdrawal will be so much worse than from cocaine and will make it so much easier for Moran and his thugs to get to him._

_He knows that he is finally loosing all sense of resistance and that means he is starting to give up hope._  

* * *

John quietly opens the door to 221B. He has returned late from the hospital and has spent the past hour with Mary, who has warmed up a piece of lasagna for him. The doctor feels a bit guilty about the fact that his and Sherlock´s fridge is devoid of any edible substances, and he wonders whether his flatmate has ordered takeaway or if he hasn´t eaten at all, as he has done frequently in the past days.

The flat appears empty, the rain pouring down outside the windows, drawing vertical lines into the glow of the street lamps outside. John sighs, shrugs out of his coat and turns the kitchen light on. Starled by a familiar sound, he stops and walks back into the living room. Heavy breathing emerges from the corner where their sofa sits and he makes out Sherlock´s distinctive features in the semi-darkness. The detective is perching there, not stirring, his breath coming in ragged gasps. There is a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead and he clutches something tightly in his trembling right hand.

"Sherlock?"

The younger man startles and looks up. "John," he answers quietly, his gaze vacant.

The doctor crouches down and traces Sherlock´s wrist gingerly, feeling his pulse. It is far too rapid for his friend´s unmoving posture.

"What happened?" the former army doctor asks. Sherlock heaves another heavy breath, shuddering and involuntarily gripping John´s wrist. He can´t remember how he finally ended up back in their flat, he only knows that he knocked on Mary´s door earlier but got no reply. As much as it is a relief to him that John is back, he feels no desire to discuss his panic attack with the doctor.

"Nothing. Just a bad memory," he brushes John off, turns and looks at the window. "I can´t afford these disturbances, John."

The doctor frowns. "What disturbances, Sherlock?" The younger man releases the dead grip on his friend´s wrist and gets up, swaying slightly, his fist still clenched around the tiny, unknown object.

"I need to go to sleep. Goodnight, John."

But John is fast enough to hold him back by gripping his elbow. "Sherlock. You are showing symptoms of severe stress if not PTSD. Tell me what happened."

The detective looks down on him, frowning.

"Let me help you," the doctor pleads, desperately hoping that he will get through to his disturbed friend.

Sherlock finally sighs and rakes his left hand through his dark curls, too weak to shake John off or to deliver one of his usual scathing remarks.

"It would help most if you would come with me tomorrow," he states.

"Where to?" John asks, slightly confused by Sherlock´s direct request. "I need to get back to Milverton´s house tomorrow night," Sherlock replies. "It would be a great... relief to have your company."

John shifts, pouting, and straightens his back. How could he possibly let his friend face danger on his own in the state he´s in, he thinks. Obviously, he is in dire need of a companion.

"Well. Right. Of course I will come with you," he promises, feeling a little bit uneasy about the slight feeling of reluctance which accompanies his decision.

Sherlock exhales heavily, swallows and looks down at his friend. "Thank you, John" he says quietly.

The doctor gets up and approaches him, toching him lightly at the shoulder. "Under one condition," he replies, which earns him a sceptical frown from Sherlock. "Only if you allow me to apply a sedative for tonight," John states with a soothing smile.

Sherlock doesn´t smile back, hesitating, before he shrugs wearily, signing defeat. "Guess I could need one. These - images are getting tedious, actually."

Feelings again, John thinks. If only Sherlock could for once admit that he is not an unfeeling alien.

* * *

Mycroft holds the newly filled glass of brandy in his hand and stares into space, thinking. Anthea has provided him with enough ammunition for his forthcoming meeting with Robert Mulech, owner of a trust which assembles several influential newspapers and broadcasting stations.

The man is a force in himself and the good thing is that he is far from being flawless. Which should work as a great advantage to his cause, Mycroft muses. A great advantage indeed.


	22. Vibrating Wings

John wakes with a start, the memory of a violin tune still vivid in his mind. It takes him several seconds to remember what happened the previous evening, and when he does, he jumps out of bed and hurries down the stairs, worried of what state he will find Sherlock in.

To his immense relief, he finds his friend perched in his favourite corner at the window, playing the first scores of a haunting, melancholy tune, completely immersed in his music. The welcoming smell of coffee, mingled with the odour of freshly brewed tea, lingers in the air and John steps into the kitchen to emerge with toast and a mug of tea several minutes later, just as Sherlock finishes the piece with a sad triplet. He wipes the instrument and its bow clean and places both carefully on the window sill, his movements as calm and collected as ever.

John glances at the Stradivarius. The sight of the beautiful instrument is one of his favourites in the flat, only surpassed by watching Sherlock play. Although he wouldn´t acknowledge it openly, John is glad that the time when he was staring at the violin for hours, wishing that Sherlock might reappear to tuck it under his chin and pluck its strings, while knowing that this could never happen again, is definitely over. He takes his first sip and frowns. The tea tastes astonishingly perfect.

John sits down on his favourite chair and regards his friend, who in turn looks out of the window.

"You made tea," he says and it is more a statement than a question.

Sherlock turns to look at him. "Pretty common drink in the Himalayas," he replies and his sea-blue eyes darken with an expression of longing which John can´t quite place. It reminds him of a person who is reminiscing over a lost love, but that can´t be possible with Sherlock, can it?

"It´s good," John states, wondering when and why Sherlock has been to the Himalayas, but refrains from asking. No need to start talking about the past two years this morning, he chides himself. Instead, he regards his friend´s haggard features. The bruises have nearly faded, but Sherlock´s eyes show a glint of an expression John can´t quite fathom, a mix of desperation and fear. The previous evening was evidence enough that the detective has been left traumatized by his encounter with Moran. Sherlock doesn´t react well to sedatives in general, so it is good to see that he seems to be calmer and more collected after a good night´s sleep. Normally, he would rather give in to insomnia than take any pills. That he agreed on John´s offer of medication is a clear indication of his weakened condition.

"Any plans for today, except paying Milverton a visit?" John asks lightly, for he knows that Sherlock is not yet willing to talk about his fears. In a deliberate display of indifference he grabs the first newspaper from the pile of the most current ones and opens it.

The younger man turns to look at him. "Hm? Oh, yes, I guess I`ll go see Dr. Morstan later. Need to make myself presentable first," he replies and strides past John, towards his room.

John frowns at the hint of false cheeriness in Sherlock´s voice, but decides to keep his concern to himself. It´s really no use to insist that the detective elaborate on the last evening, and Mary is far better equipped to help him anyway. Twenty minutes stretch to half an hour, and Sherlock doesn´t reappear. John stretches, checks his watch and decides to go for a jog.

He returns an hour later, panting and drenched in sweat, but reinvigorated. Sherlock´s coat and scarf are gone. Most probably, Sherlock has decided to make good use of the sunny weather and transfer his session with Dr. Mary Morstan to Regent´s Park. He should be back by midday, and John decides on a trip to Tesco´s to restock the kitchen with some food.

When his flatmate has neither returned by midday, nor in the afternoon, and still not by the early evening, John wonders where he might have gone. When Mary tells him that the detective missed their appointment, John starts to worry in earnest.

* * *

A golf course can be a very dangerous place, Mycroft muses, as there is always the possibility of a stray golf ball hitting an unsuspecting bystander in the skull. Plus golf clubs do make quite powerful weapons. If Mycroft had to choose the appropriate place for the assassination of a golfer, he would most definitely choose his home range. Today, though, he has not come to punish a member of his organization gone astray, he has come for an important talk with an old acquaintance.

Robert Mulech greets him with a genuine smile on his deeply tanned features and a firm handshake, self-confident as ever. His black hair is immaculately cut and dyed, his body well-trimmed and clad in a most exclusive golf outfit, and he does not in the slightest look his sixty-five years.

"Mycroft Holmes! It has been too long, don´t you agree? Oh, I do remember our last talk. That was in Cambridge, wasn´t it?" he greets the older Holmes, and Mycroft gives him a curt nod and one of his faked half-smiles in return.

"Robert. Not that long ago, in fact, two years exactly. As you know, I´d prefer to discuss pressing matters with the media to common small talk."

Mulech smiles, his eyes boring into Mycroft´s like those of a snake into those of a small mammal. "So you have come to discuss a pressing matter with me, I take it?" he asks lightly.

Mycroft shrugs and cocks his head. "Not so much for me as for you," he says. "This is why I thought it best to meet you in your preferred venue."

Mulech, who has very well spotted the irony in Mycroft´s remark, nods. "As good a place as anywhere, I would say. Actually, I can´t imagine being confined solely to my office anymore. Fancy a round?"

Mycroft nods. If his rescue mission for his own reputation and that of his brother includes a round of golf with Britain´s most important media mogul, he will not hesitate to get involved in tedious legwork.

As they walk toward the first hole, Mycroft prepares for the first blow. "Actually, I am here to warn you not to repeat your mistake of three years ago."

Mulech regards him, puzzled. "Are you telling me that I am in danger?"

"Yes, actually. If your tabloids don´t stop working with one of Britain´s most influential criminal organisations, they might face dire consequences."

The media mogul quirks an eyebrow. "I see we have more to discuss than what we did in our last holidays, then," he offers, and Mycroft nods.

"Indeed," he replies, and weighs his golf club in his hand. Apart from the boring person he is forced to play with, this is going to be a very enlightening and promising afternoon for both of them, Mycroft hopes.

* * *

A last drag on his cigarette and Sherlock throws the glowing butt away and steps on it to extinguish the sparks. He stands in the familiar spot – John´s spot, as he secretly calls it - facing St. Bart´s, looking up to the rooftop.

He has come here three or four times since Mary suggested that he visit the site, always after successfully shaking off Mycroft´s security guards, and each time he has been tempted to climb up to the roof. Recently, he has increasingly felt as if his faked suicide has never happened, and he needs solid proof that the desperate jump which changed his and John´s lives so thoroughly has actually happened. But he is aware that he might be watched by reporters who are only too eager to get a shot of him at the top of St. Bart´s, and has so far managed to refrain from entering the hospital.

He gazes up into the clouded sky, once more trying to relive John´s agony, while carefully avoiding admitting to his own feelings of failure and sadness. He knows he needs to eventually talk to John, but John still won´t hear a single thing about that fateful day and Sherlock´s hiatus. Thus, his nightmares of falling and dying persist and mingle with his memories of Moran and his thugs.

He feels a headache blooming and his hands are starting to shake. Nervously, he rakes a hand through his dark curls. If only he could blot out these unwanted thoughts and emotions. A hit would certainly help to calm him down, to steady him. If he went back to 221B right now…

A movement to his right startles him. A young woman approaches, walking quickly towards the hospital entrance, her brown hair in a ponytail, her blazer matching the colour of the dots on her skirt. She stops dead, staring at him, clutching the strap of her handbag tightly and biting her lip.

Molly. Molly, who helped him fake his suicide. Molly, who treated him when he was stabbed by a dealer. Molly, whom he insulted the last time they spoke, questioning her competence as a doctor, telling her lies to stop her inquiring about his plans.

She is still fiddling with the strip of her handbag as he watches her, but when she finally takes several determined steps towards him, he turns and walks away rapidly, nearly running, his heart hammering, tears of guilt and regret burning in his eyes.

There´s no way he can talk to Molly, not now. Not until he has successfully dealt with Milverton and removed the threat to Mycroft. He desperately needs to regain his detached and collected self.


	23. Invading a Hive

“Sir? Sorry for the disturbance, but I couldn´t reach you in your office.” The female voice sounds less composed than usual and Mycroft immediately becomes suspicious. He and Dr. Mary Morstan had enough arguments in recent years to have come to know each other rather well. He knows she would not call him on his private line if there weren´t urgent issues concerning his brother´s health to discuss.

“I will not be available in my office for the next couple of days,” he answers, and the short silence of acknowledgement indicates that Dr. Morstan has caught his meaning quite clearly. He is not known to abstain from his work for longer periods, after all. “I was actually going to drive to Oxfordshire, to our family manor, tomorrow,” he explains. “This is about Sherlock, I take it?”

“It is. I´d recommend you postpone your journey,” Dr. Morstan replies. “Sherlock has again not turned up for his appointment today. But this time, he hasn´t even told me why.”

Mycroft frowns. His brother had called him earlier in the day to inquire who his best experts on security technology for private property were and where he could find them. But, as Mycroft knows from experience, Sherlock usually tells him less than half of his plans, even in very desperate situations. Plus, Sherlock disregarding therapy sessions deliberately has always been an indication of how little he cares for his own well-being. That he should start to ignore Dr. Morstan´s professional help is unexpected and unsettling.

“Very well,” Mycroft replies. “Do you see further reasons to worry?”

Dr. Morstan clears her throat. “Well, he´s experienced heavy mood swings lately. This is partly due to his recuperation from the drugs, as you know, but there is something else…”

“Yes?” Mycroft blesses his talent to appear collected while in fact he is impatience itself.

“Well, John – ahem, Dr. Watson, told me that your brother suffers from nightmares and experienced a panic attack yesterday evening. He has so far eluded talking about what triggered his fear. Knowing him, he will continue denying he is in trouble and concentrate solely on the task at hand.”

“Which, if he begins to suspect he might fail, will trigger self-blaming which might lead to his using again; is that what you are saying?”

Dr. Morstan sighs. “Basically, yes. I´d recommend you talk to him tomorrow. He´ll probably still not be willing to speak about his traumatic experiences, but your presence might help to give him some stability.”

Or it might help to aggrieve him even more, Mycroft thinks sarcastically. At least this is what happened frequently in the past. Recently, though, his brother has gradually become more compliant with listening to him. “Very well. I will do that. Anything else you want me to know?”

“That should be it,” Mary answers curtly. “Thank you for your help.”

Mycroft pushes his mobile away and sighs. He loathes to admit his preoccupation with his work, and the accusations directed towards him have led him to overlook the dangerous shift in his brother´s condition. He wonders whether his help will come too late again. He has been far too late to help Sherlock on two occasions in the past, after all.

His musings are interrupted by his mobile vibrating, indicating the next urgent call, and he picks it up, sighing. While he listens to his counterpart, his fist balls and he feels his anger rising. If what Robert Mulech tells him is true, he will most urgently need to call on his brother first thing in the morning.

* * *

Late in the same night, John finds himself crouching at the back entrance to Milverton´s manor, Sherlock at his side. His friend had returned shortly after John called Mycroft and learned that Sherlock spent the afternoon with two specialists from Mycroft´s forces. Still, Sherlock had not appeared at any of his appointments in the morning, and both the secret British government and John´s concern was palatable throughout their short conversation.

Sherlock finally returned to 221B in the evening, looking dishevelled and pale, restless, and not willing to answer any questions except where they would be going and when. Now John weighs his Browning in his hand, waiting for Sherlock to open the back door to Appledore Towers with his skeleton key. He wonders what he is doing here, getting involved in a burglary. It´s definitely a first for him, but obviously not for Sherlock, who picks the lock with surprising deftness.

They enter into the darkness of the vast kitchen, and John follows the detective down a long corridor towards a room which, as far as John can see in the dark, is a study. The house appears to be empty; at least they don’t hear any sounds, nor do they see any lights. From Sherlock´s scarce instructions, John knows that Charles Milverton is very likely at home, sleeping soundly upstairs. His household staff, consisting of a cook and a butler, is hopefully fast asleep in the rooms adjacent to the kitchen.

They need to be swift and silent if they want to go undetected while they are trying to retrieve one of Milverton´s most treasured documents.

Surprisingly, the door to the vast study has been left open. Sherlock, who is in the lead, stops dead in his tracks and gestures towards a door to the right of the heavy writing desk. He stalls John with a flick of his hand when the doctor attempts to enter the gloomy room.

“John, wait,” he whispers. “Milverton has set up an alarm. This is why he feels safe enough to leave the door open. The alarm will be triggered by any change in movement.”

“How?” breathes John back.

“Sensors at knee-height. They are controlled by a switch in his writing desk. I need to switch it off before we can try to open the door to the adjacent room.”

John is going to inquire how Sherlock is planning to do this, when the detective crouches down, splaying himself out on the floor. He writhes slowly and carefully towards the heavy desk which sits at the back of the study, in front of a row of windows, through which rays of moonlight meet the soft wool of the lush Persian carpet.

It seems to take Sherlock hours instead of minutes to reach his target, but finally John watches the detective reach up into the dark shadows under the writing surface. John can´t quite fathom whether the slight click he hears is a product of his overactive imagination – overactive due to the amount of adrenaline his body is currently distributing – or really the sound of a switch being turned.

Sherlock flashes him a triumphant grin – barely distinguishable in the dim light John´s headlamp distributes – and crawls forward to the door of the adjacent room, where he hunches and fiddles with his skeleton keys again. The door finally opens with a creak and John has to hurry to keep up with the detective disappearing quickly in the darkness.

Inside, the two men are facing several filing cabinets, the drawer´s surfaces blank and shiny, not giving away the system Milverton uses to keep track of his files.

John watches as Sherlock gingerly opens two, then three drawers, and then a fourth, his movements as fluid and competent as ever. He is obviously invigorated by the thrill of finding evidence of the threat to Mycroft. His brows furrow in concentration as he regards several documents, John´s lamp providing him with enough light to read. Suddenly, Sherlock digs into another one of the drawers to retrieve a file and several brown envelopes marked “MH”.

“Easy,” he whispers. “He keeps them sorted according to the importance of the individuals he is dealing with.”

“How on earth…” John starts, but Sherlock shrugs his remark off.

“Look, here is Heathersand. And here, in the drawer following the one with Heathersand, was Mycroft´s file.” He retrieves the envelopes and tucks them away in an inner pocket of his Belstaff.

John suppresses the remark that it might be easy for a genius like Sherlock to see through Milverton´s non-existing filing system and makes a mental note to ask his friend later how he managed to find the information so quickly.

They turn to leave the premises, but are startled by the sound of footsteps approaching. Carefully, they retreat into the shadowy recesses of the room while the footsteps are drawing nearer. When they have passed through the study, the detective and his doctor hasten back towards the kitchen. The same instant they reach the kitchen door, the footsteps seem to turn and follow them. Clearly the person who is wandering around Milverton´s mansion in the night is not suffering from a serious case of insomnia. He has heard them and is pursuing them.

Just when they have silently entered the kitchen, they are stalled by the sound of the safety of a revolver being released.

“Gentleman, do me the favor of staying, will you? I am longing for an enlightening talk with two of the most popular men in Britain,” a male voice says. “And please put your hands behind your heads – it´ll make things so much safer for me, considering your shooting skills, Dr. Watson.”

Sherlock stops dead, his heartbeat quickening. He has heard this voice far too often, under far too dire circumstances. As he raises his hands and turns, he senses John doing the same, with the same quiet and collected movements. Strangely enough, this has the effect of calming him down.

Their opponent flashes them a triumphant grin. “Holmes and Watson on a silver tray,” he says. “I wonder what your detective inspector friend would say about your little nightly visit to Appledore Towers.”

“Go on, call him. I am sure he would love to make your acquaintance,” Sherlock answers, his voice hard and tinged with hatred.

Moran shakes his head. “Tut, Holmes. This meeting is private – as was your special treatment on my humble premises. I hope you remember your stay with fond memories.”

John glances at Sherlock, noticing that faint tremors are running through his friend´s body. Sherlock, in turn, looks at Moran. His heartbeat has quickened again and he feels his hands getting cold and clammy, sure signs of the start of a panic attack. He needs to stay calm, so he takes a deep breath.

“You were far too single-minded to really be an attentive host,” Sherlock spits.

Moran, who has noticed the trembling in the detective´s voice, smirks. “Still feeling elated by the memory of your little binge?” he asks. “A shame you don´t consider me a worthy host. You were quite an entertaining guest, you know.” The sniper studies Sherlock as he would regard a deer on a hunt. “I am inconsolable that my hospitality was not really what you expected. But you appeared to enjoy the little surprise I had in store for you. I had the impression you were getting rather keen on injecting everything on offer.”

Sherlock´s lips curl in a sarcastic smile. “As I told you before, you can always simply shoot me,” he says. “It would make things so much easier. You could even refrain from the tedious task of destroying my brother´s reputation. Your organisation wants to get rid of me, after all.”

“Oh, showing sentiment.” Moran´s eyes harden. “I am quite surprised that you care so much for your annoying sibling.” He draws very near and runs a finger over the scar on Sherlock´s right wrist. The detective shudders at the touch, but he commands himself not to lunge out and briefly closes his eyes to cover his revulsion. He feels John twitch at his side, but the doctor manages to stay calm.

“Sigerson,” Moran says. “Because you posed as Sigerson you thought you knew how our organisation works.” He draws back and looks directly into Sherlock´s eyes. “I would have thought you were cleverer than that. It´s a shame your visit at my host´s house has been in vain. Your brother´s reputation is marred beyond repair. He has sold weapons to a country Britain has cut all diplomatic relations with, after all.”

Sherlock is still not moving, but his breath hitches and he feels nauseous at the sight of Moran´s knowing smile.

Moran´s eyes narrow. “You know, I like a good challenge – as you do. I know you will not disappoint me. You didn´t disappoint, after all – only perhaps in recovering so well from the speedball. I think I should give you some more incentive to hunt me, as you were getting rather lazy lately. I think I should take something valuable from you, something you would want me to pay with my life for.”

Moran smiles again, and Sherlock feels he can´t possibly stand still and clasp his hands behind his head any longer. When the ex-colonel turns slightly, the detective watches him, terrified.

Before he can form a clear thought, Moran turns to face John, his face blank. “My dear Dr. Watson, I am terribly sorry that my host had to shoot you in self-defence,” Moran announces. And fires.


	24. Failure

It is far too easy to stop a heart with a bullet. It is even less difficult to rip Sherlock´s non-existent heart apart by sending a bullet towards the heart of his only and best friend.

For the fraction of a second, Sherlock is paralysed, immersed in images and sounds violating his mind, obstructing any logical thought – John´s gestures, his laughter, his voice. The sound of the shot is completely obliterated by John´s voice telling Sherlock "That was amazing," "We can´t giggle, it´s a crime scene," and "You´re an idiot." He has been an idiot indeed, letting Moran gain the upper hand on them, letting the colonel kill his best friend. He definitely is a fraud, as he has not been able to keep John safe. There will be no goodbye this time, and death will be permanent. John, dead. John, his compass, broken.

"John!" Sherlock snaps back to the present and is down on his knees next to John´s collapsed body in an instant, fumbling for a pulse, afraid of touching his friend and feeling blood on his fingers. Despite his steadily rising panic, which still threatens to erase any rationality, something is persistently nagging at the back of his mind. When his fingers curl around John´s wrist, Sherlock is rewarded with the touch of strong fingers and a very quiet whisper of "I´m fine" from the army doctor.

Stupid, so stupid – he didn´t observe. Relief erases the terror which has nearly swallowed him. Obviously John had the presence of mind to wear his bulletproof jacket. He will be all right, thank God. But Moran needs to be distracted. Sherlock must act promptly.

He is quick enough to lunge out towards Moran, who has not yet lowered his weapon, and tackle his knees, slamming him onto the floor. John, in turn, has retrieved his Browning in a wink, to smash it down on the colonel´s skull. In his haste, he misses, bringing it down on the criminal´s right shoulder instead. The sniper is struggling to get up again, groaning, while Sherlock seizes John by the arm, hauling him away, and the two flee through the back door and into the garden.

Once they are outside, a second shot roars, and they both drop down behind some shrubs. John crashes onto his left, bad shoulder and involuntarily loses the grip on his gun. Sherlock has nearly risen again, taking in their surroundings, evaluating the safest route for their imminent escape, when a third shot roars and the detective crashes back onto the grass, moaning.

John grabs him and hauls him upright. Finally a siren goes off and the garden is instantly lightened by several flood lights.

To John´s enormous relief, he doesn´t feel blood on Sherlock´s coat. He silently thanks Mycroft and his far-sightedness in providing them with bullet-proof garments while he leads Sherlock away from the blinding lamps, supporting him.

"Are you okay?" he asks. He is answered with a groan.

"Where?" he demands more urgently, growing impatient, and Sherlock presses the word "shoulder" through clenched teeth, drawing a pained breath.

Of course. The bullet meant for Sherlock´s heart has not found its target and locked itself into the bulletproof material, cracking the collarbone on impact.

Sirens wail in the distance, and the flatmates hurry away from the huge building. "The police. Finally," Sherlock mumbles, and John feels the already far too familiar tremors of exhaustion and fear run through his friend´s body. An ice-cold hand connects with his. With a reassuring grip, he hauls his friend several steps forward. "Let´s get the hell out of here," he hisses. 

* * *

It is only on their cab ride home that he realises he left his Browning in Milverton´s garden, most probably somewhere on the dense English lawn. He can´t possibly get back to search for it, and Sherlock needs medical attention, so John pushes his concern aside and assesses the extent of the damage to the detective´s shoulder. It seems Sherlock should be fine with painkillers and probably a sling for his arm, as the bone appears to be cracked, not broken. Far more worrying is the fact that the detective appears to be slipping into shock again and remains nearly unresponsive to John´s questions.

John sighs, giving up on his attempts to examine his friend more closely for the time being, and looks out of the window. He wonders whether Moran is not a far more dangerous threat to Sherlock than Moriarty ever was.

When he looks back at the detective, huddled in his coat, his grey eyes meet his friend´s sea-blue ones.

"John. I´m glad you´re alive," Sherlock says.

John smiles. "Thanks to Mycroft," he replies and watches in bewilderment as Sherlock´s expression darkens.

The detective closes his eyes. His mind attacks him with vicious accusations. Fraud. Freak. Too self-centred to be able to protect a friend. You are a failure, son.

John, who senses that something is wrong, raises a brow. Torn between granting Sherlock some minutes of rest and asking him questions again, he eventually decides to remain silent.

The humming of the engine is the only sound for the rest of the cab ride. Sherlock finally gives in to his exhaustion. Sound asleep, he is dreaming of bees, of the peace of his French grandfather´s orchard.

* * *

The flatmates´ very silent breakfast the following morning is interrupted by the front door banging shut, Mrs. Hudson´s disgruntled voice and familiar, determined footsteps on the stairs. A loud knock at their door stops Sherlock, who is on his way to the kitchen. Angry, the detective turns. "Come in, Mycroft. Don´t be dense. This door will not be locked to meet your requirements of convention," he barks.

An infuriated Mycroft Holmes storms into the living room, tackling his younger brother by grabbing the lapels of his dressing gown and shoving him back towards the fireplace, which has not yet been set alight this early in the morning.

Sherlock winces and nearly cries out, closing his eyes in pain as his brother´s fist connects with his left shoulder.

"Who is the dense one here?" Mycroft fumes. "Where is it?"

Sherlock, who unsuccessfully tries to peel his brother´s hands away from his clothes and his injured shoulder, goes limp. "What?" he manages to breathe, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Mycroft shakes him slightly. "You know exactly what I am talking about. Where is it?" High time to step in, John realises, and grabs Mycroft´s right arm to pry him away from his sibling. Mycroft releases his grip, and the brothers stare at each other. Finally Sherlock sags against the mantelpiece, and looks down at the floor, his face paling.

"Bedroom. In my coat," he states quietly, his hands slightly shaking, his face still wrinkled in pain.

"Could you please explain why you are storming in like a raging bull? And I want to hear a damn good reason. Your brother cracked his collarbone yesterday night, and suffered a severe panic attack two days ago," John shouts, nearly beyond himself at the elder Holmes´ uncharacteristic outburst. "I don´t think attacking him will do him any good at the moment."

"I am positive using cocaine will not do him any good either," Mycroft replies coldly, regarding John with the steely gaze he usually reserves for the most irritating members of parliament, before he turns back on Sherlock.

"Did you inject?" he asks bluntly, with the full authority of an older brother, and the detective shakes his head, not daring to look Mycroft in the eyes.

John frowns. He can´t quite comprehend why the elder Holmes is frantic with the knowledge that Sherlock has purchased a batch. There must be more behind his fury.

As if on cue, Mycroft steps over to the coffee table and retrieves one of the recent newspapers, tossing it into John´s arms. "Read for yourself. Page three," he orders.

John opens the page only to look up from it after a short while, his face serious. "It says here: 'the famous sleuth, currently recovering from a speedball overdose, was sighted on the Heath last night approaching a dealer, obviously in need of an illegal substance to kindle his inspiration. Rumour persists that Scotland Yard has cut all ties to the supposed genius due to his bygone and recent addiction.'"

Mycroft nods, a frown wrinkling his forehead. "Obviously my brother has not yet learned his lesson. I would have thought he would be cautious with the press by now."

The doctor glances at Sherlock, who has slumped into his favourite chair.

"I didn´t realise I was tailed," the detective states defensively.

Mycroft snorts. "You, of all people, were not aware you were being followed? I am surprised. My genius brother is slipping. Probably you are, in fact, losing your sanity."

John takes an instinctive step nearer to Sherlock´s side, places a reassuring hand on his friend´s shoulder and does his best to stare the Ice Man down. "I already told you he suffered a panic attack two days ago. Exhaustion caused by trauma doesn´t normally account for being extra alert," he says, his voice hard.

The elder Holmes looks at Sherlock questioningly, and John watches as the detective tries to even his breathing, and freezes under his brother´s scrutiny like a specimen on a petri dish. Sherlock deliberately lowers his mask, John realises, inviting Mycroft to study him, to deduce. Several minutes pass, the tension between the men growing, when finally Mycroft releases a heavy sigh. His expression turns into one of pity, bordering on compassion, as he silently asks his brother "How bad?". Sherlock swallows and avoids Mycroft´s eyes again, whereupon Mycroft nods.

"Very well," he says. "John, if you would be so kind as to retrieve the object we were talking about from my brother´s room. I consider it sensible to search the usual places, too."

John nods and leaves. When he returns after several minutes, the tiny bag of white crystals in his hand, he notices that the staring contest between the brothers has ended only now. Sherlock has apparently lost, for the sleeves of his dressing gown are pushed up to his elbows, revealing the traces of former abuse on his pale arms, but thankfully no new injection sites. The detective looks up as John approaches.

"Did you plan on using it?" John asks evenly, and Sherlock shrugs.

"I did." He heaves a breath, meeting John´s unrelenting stare. "But I… I couldn´t. When you suggested the sedative, sleep seemed the far more logical option."

John sends Sherlock a tight but friendly smile. "First time in a long while you´ve actually demanded sleep," he replies, and Sherlock smiles back warily.

The short companionable silence between the two is broken by commotion at the door. When Mrs. Hudson steps in, wringing her hands, she is accompanied by two policemen and an unfamiliar detective inspector. The stranger - on the police force for twenty years, divorced, a teenage son, dog-lover, Sherlock thinks - steps forward, while one of his men rounds on the detective.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I´m Ian McLennan from drugs. We have been informed that you recently acquired an illegal substance." How can they know? Sherlock asks himself silently and stares the officer down. "By whom?" he demands to know, feigning innocence, but McLennan is not intimidated. His brown eyes don´t leave Sherlock´s blue ones, and he shakes his head.

"I am sorry Sir, but I can´t tell you who our informant is," he replies.

"Of course," Sherlock answers, a trace of irony in his voice. "So this is a drugs bust?"

McLennan nods curtly. "It is. I am sorry, Sir."

Sherlock doesn´t move a muscle, his face an unreadable mask, while John starts fidgeting, and Mycroft twirls his umbrella, which he has picked up again after his outburst, in annoyance. They are both close to saying something, but Sherlock beats them to the punch. "I have already handed Dr. Watson the 'illegal substance' you are talking about to have it destroyed," he says. "We agreed it would be better to rid me of the temptation to use. So, before you turn our flat, and especially Dr. Watson´s possessions, upside down, please take it."

The DI´s eyes widen and he stares unbelieving at the detective. "Actually, I didn´t expect…" he starts and fidgets. "Well, I am sorry, Sir…"

"I am surprised you didn´t expect an ex-junkie to acquire his drug. You´re working for the drugs squad, after all," Sherlock snarls, and the DI´s expression grows serious as he gestures to one of the officers to take the offending object from John. John, who winces at the expression of pain on Sherlock´s features when the second police man yanks the detective´s hands back to handcuff him, steps forward to protest. A glance from Mycroft stops him. The secret British government advances the inspector, straightening to his whole impressive height.

"I take it you´ll take my brother to the Yard for questioning?"

McLennan nods, not impressed by Mycroft´s threatening approach.

"May I draw your attention to the fact that my brother recently suffered from a very traumatic experience and might not react well to confinement in a locked room? And that your officer might have added to the recent damage of his collarbone by shackling him?"

The DI frowns. "We are only following protocol, sir." Mycroft stares at the man, his face a mask of collected fury. "I will hold you personally responsible for any worsening of my brother´s condition. I´ll be happy to send you my solicitor tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I ask you to allow his physician, Dr. Watson, to accompany him to the Yard."

Sherlock´s gaze flicks to John, and the doctor detects a hint of desperation in his friend´s eyes. Mycroft is right. If Sherlock is again faced with circumstances reminiscent of his abduction, he might suffer from the next panic attack pretty soon.

He needs me so much, John realizes. How could I ever have been so blind to deny him my help, only because I was insane with rage? He wonders whether he has been transformed by grief into an egoistic, self-centred idiot.

The doctor nods his silent approval to his friend´s silent plea and is rewarded with a slight quirk of Sherlock´s lips.

But DI McLennan shakes his head. "Sorry, Sir, but you can´t just walk into the Yard´s detention area unless you´ve committed a crime yourself," he tells the doctor.

John, who has expected a similar reply, fumes. Perhaps he should hit one of the Yarders to get himself arrested. It worked with the superintendent, after all. He balls his fists, but Mycroft sends him a disapproving glare, and John reins himself in. Sherlock, who has exchanged a glance with his brother, turns to face the DI, one eyebrow raised.

"I don´t need my personal doctor. A solicitor might be useful, Mycroft, if you don´t mind."

"He´ll be at the Yard in the morning," the secret British government assures him.

Sherlock nods his approval, and lets himself be hauled away from his home at 221B by the police force for the second time.


	25. Telling Encounters

Prison cells provide no stimuli for any mind, much less one as agile as Sherlock´s. The detective is only too conscious of this fact, as he is of the fact that his perception is warped by his ghastly memories. The cool, concrete floor reminds him of the disused quarry he was held captive in, as does the cool air the detention area breathes. As a result, he feels increasingly fidgety and nervous.

He remembers several incidents when he was arrested for possession and waited for Mycroft to bail him out of prison. Each time, he was desperate to escape confinement. Sometimes, he was simply bored with the procedure. In one or two instances, he actually worried whether his brother´s loyalty and patience with him would stretch any farther.

This morning is by far the worst period of time he has ever spent in prison. Too agitated to rest, he has paced the small room for the past two hours. Fed up with counting his steps and turns out of sheer boredom, he finally slumps on the small bed, his head touching the wall, eyes closed. At least nobody will come in to punch and torture him, he reminds himself bitterly. His body seems to be not too convinced about what his mind is telling him. Shivers run through his limbs, and he tries to steady his hands. On top of that, the old, familiar itch tickles his epidermis in accompaniment with the ferocious cacophony of thoughts and images that threaten to rip his mind apart. As much as he feels relieved he didn´t touch the batch of cocaine, he longs for the escape the substance would have granted him, had he used.

It doesn´t make things better that he´s not allowed to smoke, and though he tries very hard to collect his thoughts and enter his mind palace, he can´t concentrate. He is wasting his time, wailing about his fate. Useless, that is what he has become. Useless as he ever was. To think otherwise is hubris.

He must finally have dozed off, for he is startled by the door opening. On hearing a familiar voice, he opens his eyes to meet the honest gaze of detective inspector Lestrade.

"Hi mate," Greg greets him softly. "Made a mess of your life again, getting caught red-handed?"

Sherlock attempts to push himself up straighter, which proves to be difficult with his hurting shoulder. He feels weary and cold. To hide his weakness, he meets Lestrade with his most intimidating stare. "Why are you here?" he asks.

The DI draws nearer and crouches down for a thorough examination of his consultant. Aware of Sherlock´s evasion tactic, he places a reassuring hand on the detective´s good, right shoulder. "John called me. He told me you could use a blanket. And these." He pulls one of the hateful orange shock blankets from his jacket, and retrieves a package of pills from a pocket.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose in disgust. "No, thank you. I´m done with soothing medication."

But Greg pushes the package into his hand, not unfriendly. "Don´t be stupid, it´s only painkillers," he chides. Sherlock opens the box, and a small strip of paper falls out. The detective unfurls it and stares at John´s handwriting. "Take one, you git. Doctor´s orders," the note says.

Lestrades watches with a smile as Sherlock follows John´s instruction. After a minute of silence, the detective stretches his left arm gingerly, eyeing the detective inspector with furrowed brows. "There´s one more reason for your visit. An unexpected death. A murder perhaps."

Lestrade´s smile fades and he nods. "We found a body on the Heath, not far from Milverton´s manor. Since you have been spotted near the place recently, I thought it might be helpful if you accompanied me to the morgue."

Sherlock´s piercing blue eyes meets Lestrade´s. "As a suspect?" he asks, but Lestrade shakes his head.

"No. As my unofficial consultant disguised as a suspect."

For the first time since the DI entered the cell, Sherlock smiles. "Very well. I can´t possibly decline your offer, can I?"

"No, you can´t, since it is an order," Lestrade replies. "Ready when you are."

* * *

"John?" Mary´s voice reaches him from far away. John snaps out of his musings. He looks at the woman he loves and notices the wrinkles on her forehead, the concern in her eyes. Obviously, she has called him more than once.

"You haven´t said a word since you came in," Mary says. "What happened?"

John looks at her, a lost expression on his face. "Sherlock happened," he says. "He got himself arrested."

"What for?" Mary asks. Her eyes widen as she realises. "Possession?"

"Unfortunately, yes," John replies unhappily.

Mary sits down on the armrest next to him, and pushes a hand through his hair. "He will not react well to being confined, the state he´s in," she says. John nods. Her expression grows serious. "Did he… did he use?" she asks with a small voice, and John, sensing her fear that she might have failed in her task, takes her hand in his and shakes his head. 

"No. Fortunately not." Hesitating, he avoids her eyes and looks out of the window. The pale April sun sends its rays into the basement flat. Golden flecks of dust are dancing in the air, and John remembers how he stared at a similar sight for weeks, mesmerised by the never-ceasing movement, pondering how alive the dust looked to him and how numb he felt in comparison.

He leans towards Mary and kisses her lightly on the temple. "Don´t worry. You are very good for him. But he has rarely ever let anything detract him from his plans." John sighs. "I´m worried he overestimates himself this time." He pauses. "I couldn´t bear losing him a second time, Mary. I was angry that he had come back, because I felt I would live better without his presence in my life. Without this constant … fear that he would be reckless enough to get hurt or killed. Yesterday, when he crashed after the shot… when I thought for a second I might lose him again…" John´s voice falters.

Mary cups his face with her hands. "I know. He hurt you. And it still hurts. But he won´t leave you again like that, John. He´s hurting, too." She runs her thumbs over John´s cheeks. "Help him. Be his friend again. He needs you."

John smiles and grasps Mary´s wrists, bringing their heads closer together. "That´s what Mycroft told me, too." he says."I didn´t want to listen to him then."

Mary sends him an affectionate smile. "But you do listen to me."

"That is because you are the most wonderful woman I ever met," John replies, serious. "I need you, Mary. Please, stay in my life."

Mary laughs softly. "I have no intention of leaving any time soon," she says, and John smiles and kisses her. 

* * *

Molly turns as the two men enter the morgue. Sherlock looks paler and more exhausted than she has ever seen him, but he still bears this angelic grace she had fallen for years ago, and which she still adores. It is not unusual for Lestrade to accompany the detective, but Molly detects a certain amount of concern in the DI´s glances towards his consultant. Sherlock seems withdrawn and nervous as he approaches the slab with the nameless body, but as soon as he starts his examination, the determined and attentive detective is back again.

Sherlock is thorough as always, picking up the hands of the dead man, pushing his sparse hair aside, giving his feet a closer look. It takes him only a few minutes to finish, and when he looks up, he wears his familiar expression of intense concentration.

"Male, about 30 years old, the Russian letters tattooed into his skin indication of an East European background. Callused index finger, distinctive biceps – he´s a skilled shot, and well-trained. He has been wounded severely recently, most probably from a shot. The scar on his left leg indicates he´s been hit by a bullet. Heavy drinker, occasional drug user. Unemployed – when employed, not in a legal trade. Shot in the head, most likely executed. I would assume he belongs to the web, probably assigned to Milverton."

Sherlock bends down, taking one of the dead man´s hands up again and sniffs. "He has been preparing a meal recently, there´s the smell of garlic on his fingers." The detective straightens up. "Milverton has both a butler and a cook. I don´t think he will report the man´s absence, though, since both are here in Britain illegally." Sherlock looks at Lestrade, who has crossed his arms on his chest, deep in thought.

"Why did he get shot?" the DI asks.

"Disobedience? Failure? There are multiple possibilities. If he were shot in self-defence, he most certainly wouldn´t have been hit in the forehead." Sherlock hesitates and Lestrade senses that he might know more than he´s letting on. Suspicious, he draws a step nearer towards his consultant. "John´s a pretty good shot," he says quietly, but Sherlock shakes his head.

"John would only kill if threatened. He would definitely not act out an execution on an opponent."

"That´s what I would say," Greg agrees. "But this man has been shot with John´s Browning. Did John report his weapon missing recently?"

Sherlock looks down on the body, avoiding Lestrade´s eyes. Greg, again sensing something is wrong, gazes back, his brows knitted. "We both know this gun doesn´t exist officially. So how does it turn up on the Heath in the middle of last night?"

Sherlock turns, his face blank. "It wasn´t John. Check it for fingerprints and the time of death," he dismisses Lestrade´s question.

The DI, who knows exactly when his consultant is evading him, sighs. "Sherlock, where the hell were the two of you yesterday? John told me you cracked your clavicle – I don´t believe you just tripped on the stairs."

Sherlock straightens to look down on the Inspector, his face blank. "Oh, but I did. Still recuperating, you know," he replies.

Lestrade is far from being convinced. But pushing the subject further now will not get him anywhere, since Sherlock has clearly decided to avoid the topic. Greg shrugs. Later, then.

Lightly, he answers: "If you say so. You know, you still owe me. Remember the access to Heathersand´s file? Plus I can always call John in for questioning. His fingerprints are on the weapon, after all." Sherlock sends him an infuriated stare, but Greg doesn´t wince. "Or the two of us can have a pleasant chat after McLennan dealt with you, and I´ll see that the door to your cell will be guarded by one of my men, instead of being locked."

The detective´s eyes are narrowing, and he wrinkles his nose. He fidgets as if to say something, but finally gives in to defeat and nods. Lestrade smiles back, and they both turn to leave the morgue.

* * *

In the corridor, they meet Molly. Sherlock jumps slightly and attempts to brush past her, but she stalls him with an outstretched hand.

Lestrade watches as the detective cards the fingers of his right hand through his dark curls. Sherlock radiates uneasiness – for the first time Lestrade has seen him with Molly, actually.

"Inspector?" Greg is startled by Sherlock´s tentative voice. He looks back expectantly. "Would you mind to wait for me outside? I need to discuss something with Dr. Hooper."

"Right. As long as you promise me not to run," Greg answers.

"Promised. Only a few minutes, then I´ll accompany you back to the yard."

Lestrade smiles. "You know I´ve always trusted your word," he says and walks away.

* * *

"Sherlock? What was that about the Yard?" Molly asks as soon as Lestrade is out of earshot.

He ruffles his hair again. "Oh, I´m officially under arrest," he answers lightly, and Molly opens her mouth in astonishment.

Sherlock starts to feel increasingly uneasy. He was thinking of explaining his rude behaviour the last time they met, but suddenly he doesn´t know where to start. John would know. But he has had no opportunity yet to tell John what happened when he stayed at Molly´s flat, injured and sick. At a loss for the right words, he opens his mouth, but Molly is faster.

"Sherlock. I was so… I was angry with you. The things you said before you left… When Mycroft called, you know – it suddenly was all right. You´ve been through such a difficult time, and your addiction…"

Sherlock stares back at her, still frightened of, by saying something dull saying something stupid or hurting, and Molly looks at him, biting her lip.

"Look, Mycroft told me." She draws a breath. "We kept in contact after you had left for the continent. He called me when you were in rehab to tell me that you are alive. He mentioned your abduction. And your disguise." She smiles at the Sherlock´s obvious puzzlement. "I remembered you telling me that there is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact."

"Molly," Sherlock replies hoarsely, "you helped me, and I insulted your competence as a doctor." His voice trails off, and Molly notices how he clutches his left elbow with his right hand. "I apologize."

She shakes her head, a strand of hair falling into her face. "You don´t need to," she says softly. "You didn´t want to leave me without a hint of what you were really doing. And you didn´t want to place me in danger. You are a very brave man, Sherlock Holmes." She nods at his arm. "It´s that bad, hum?"

He looks at her, and there is so much raw honesty in his gaze that Molly flinches. It´s an expression she has never seen before with Sherlock. A vulnerable, frightened man has replaced the aloof, ever-so-clever genius who could reduce her to nervous twitches and babbling.

"It´s good John´s there to help you," she says, and watches a spark of hurt flicker in his eyes. "You know, I´ll be there if you need me," Molly continues, nervously playing with the strand of hair, "You know that, do you?"

"I know. Thank you, Molly Hooper," he answers. "I have to go." Molly fidgets. "Well, good luck." She watches his retreating back until he has passed the door to the outer world, his dark coat billowing behind him like a raven´s wing.

Molly sighs, hands tucked into the pockets of her white lab coat, and returns to the dead.

* * *

"Well, Sebastian, last night wouldn´t list among your most heroic deeds." Charles Milverton faces his guest, a glass of brandy in his hand. The room is nearly dark, the fire drawing changing patterns on his most expensive Persian carpet and on the faces of the two men.

"I am not a hero anyway," Sebastian Moran shoots back. He is still angry at himself. He should have considered the possibility that the sleuth and his companion were wearing bulletproof jackets. Dr. Watson would be out of his way by now, and the detective livid with rage and nicely unpredictable. What a glorious hunt this could have been. Instead, he is still faced with the threat the Holmes-Watson trio poses to the organisation. True, he hit the detective, but the shot couldn´t have left much damage, considering how well Watson was protected from his bullet. And neither an injury nor a state of mental instability seems to stop the younger Holmes from counteracting him. The glare of pure hatred the detective gave him during their short conversation was proof enough.

Good. He would be bored out of his skull hunting his victim without a challenge anyway. He takes a sip from his whisky. The Lagavulin´s smoky taste matches his gloomy thoughts perfectly.

"You owe me, Sebastian," Milverton continues. "I hope you do have a worthy replacement for Sergej. I planned a dinner for Sunday."

Moran smiles. "Plenty of good cooks out there. Some of them even talented as security guards, too." His expression grows serious. "You haven´t yet told me which documents are missing."

Milverton leans back, his brows knitted. "This is the problem. Those on Mycroft Holmes, of course. My informant might be in danger."

Sebastian takes another sip and displays a wolfish grin. "You have always been too organized, Charles. Spontaneity is an underrated virtue, but in our business, it is a must."

"Or a most dangerous talent. You tend to act on the spur of the moment – we are certainly not safer because of yesterday night," Milverton replies in a silken tone.

Moran leans his elbows on his knees and stares into the fire. "Oh, we might not be safe, but we are at an advantage, dearest Charles. Consider one missing Browning and the confusion its reappearance triggers. We have more than enough time to forge a new plan." He looks at the older man, who in turn examines his manicured fingernails and twirls the huge gold ring he wears on his left index finger.

"Of course your plans are always flawless," Milverton says, using the same silken voice. "As Holmes´s plans appear to be as well. I wonder who will win this little contest in the end."

Moran straightens and puts his glass down. "You are hardly ever able to ever criticise me, Charles," he replies in his most charming tone. "I wouldn´t look at it as a contest, though – I´d prefer to call it a game. Jim and Holmes did, too." He sets down his glass. "It actually feels like chess to me. And it is high time to break the bishop´s legs."

Milverton´s deep-sunken eyes are glistening, and he lays a hand with meaty fingers on Sebastian´s arm. "I´d be intrigued to learn more. Please fill me in."


	26. A Dream of Bees

"Just sign it, and we´ll be on the safe side again," Mycroft demands. He points at the document which lies inconspicuously on the coffee table. Impatient and eager to leave, he traces the outlines of the rug´s pattern with the tip of his umbrella. John watches the elder Holmes´s display of restrained impatience with amusement from behind his newspaper. He calls himself to order and tries not to interfere with the brother´s quarrel, but he is greatly tempted to pound some sense into Sherlock´s stubborn skull.

The document in question which Sherlock has so far refused to sign is an exclusive agreement with Robert Mulech´s media trust. It obligates the detective to appear on several television shows Mulech´s empire broadcasts, to a home story and an exclusive interview with Selena Charkee, one of Mulech´s most popular reporters. As a reward, the media mogul offers one million pounds, which will go to a trust dedicated to homeless London teenagers. Sherlock was adamant on this arrangement, as he cares deeply for his homeless network, and, John believes, has spent some time sleeping rough himself. He had agreed to all terms unconditionally when he read the first draft of the contract, but in this specific moment he is less than compliant to sign the document.

"Surely your superior intellect tells you that there is nothing like a 'safe side' with Moran and the web," Sherlock replies sarcastically, looking sternly at his brother.

Mycroft rolls his eyes and sighs. "Sign it," he answers.

Sherlock lets his pen drop and turns to face his annoying sibling. "It says on page four that I am expected to wear the death frisbee whenever required. This passage needs to be rephrased."

John stifles a smile. Obviously his friend has found a way back to his old self again, at least partly. He would not likely use his energy to throw a tantrum if he had none to spare. The doctor regards the sling on Sherlock´s arm, and his gaze travels towards his friend´s shoulder and to his face. He is pale, yes, but he doesn´t show signs of severe distress, and he has slept soundly for nearly twelve hours straight after returning from custody. He woke with a slight fever, and John silently included extreme exertion on the list of ailments his friend had suffered in the past weeks. When Lestrade came to question John about his missing weapon later in the afternoon, Sherlock listened, perched in his favourite chair, quiet and obviously chastised. Lestrade left them with a fair warning not to stretch the boundaries of British Law too much the next time they investigated a case. He assured John that his Browning was to remain in the evidence vault for as long as the investigation on Sergej Renko´s death would take.

Great, John thinks. We are protected by bulletproof vests and Mycroft´s security guards, but we are no longer armed.

Mycroft. The elder Holmes showed an alarmingly high level of concern when he arrived shortly after Lestrade left, reporting that Moran, according to the Coast Guard, had left the country. Sherlock, not convinced, started an argument on the abilities and the motivation of Mycroft´s men, until the secret British government accepted defeat and eventually took his leave.

And right now, the two probably cleverest men in London, perhaps in all of Britain, argue over a simple signature.

Mycroft stops tracing the pattern of the rug, and raises the umbrella´s tip accusingly towards the neutral piece of paper on the desk, pointing it at the bottom of the page.

"Sign it. Madison and Miller will be arriving in one hour to accompany you to your first meeting with Chris Carter."

"No, Mycroft. I´ll attend the meeting, but Mulech must have this passage altered." "The public loves you in a deerstalker," Mycroft replies. "Carter´s number of viewers will rise drastically if he can present you as a proper hero."

Only John sees the flicker of desperation in Sherlock´s eyes. And he understands. The detective has lived through enough humiliation. He has even sunken to the point of considering using again due to his despair. He feels not the slightest desire to present himself as an eccentric to the public. Sherlock loathes this hat and how the media hype of his person has made it his trademark.

The doctor smiles, pleased, as the detective pushes the papers together, coils them up and points them toward Mycroft´s chest with finality. "Take this back," Sherlock says. "And I would quite appreciate your leaving. I need to think."

Mycroft cocks an eyebrow, his mouth twitching into his trademark sarcastic half-smile. "Do you really assume pure inspiration will reveal an infallible plan to keep your loved ones safe?" he asks sarcastically.

Sherlock, who has been staring out of the window, jerks his head back and sends his brother an exasperated glance. "You know it´s not only inspiration. It´s re-evaluating facts. That´s what generals do during a cease-fire. They reconsider their strategy," he shoots back.

"You are still convinced that Moran will not tackle you or anyone close to you in public?" Mycroft asks, more softly. "Do you really think you can protect John effectively? Haven´t you recently been witness to Moran´s attempt at cold-blooded murder of our dear doctor?"

Johns grasp on the newspaper he is holding tightens. He and Sherlock have not yet spoken about the incident at Milverton´s house, but he has picked up signs that the detective is still fairly rattled. He has felt Sherlock´s eyes follow his every movement more than once in the past two days, and a steaming mug of tea was waiting for him in the kitchen this morning.

The telling gaze Sherlock flicks first at him then at Mycroft speaks clearly of self-blame and anguish. But it is gone as fast as it appeared, and Sherlock leans back in his chair, his voice as calm and reasonable as ever. "That was a run-in and completely unexpected both by me and the colonel. As I said, Moran would not attempt to tackle me, or anyone connected to me, in the open," he says.

"Believe what you must," Mycroft replies, massaging his temple. "I am sure you do have a plan." He leans on his umbrella, heavily. "My offer of protective custody still stands. For you, John, Dr. Morstan, and Mrs. Hudson. Let my men take care of the criminal."

Silence. Then Sherlock´s lips curl in an ironic smile. "Weren´t you the one convinced he left for the continent?"

"We both know he will be back – if he has even started his journey," Mycroft replies. "Sherlock, when I am finished with Moran´s secret informant, I will again be able to protect you. I don´t think you should be further pursuing Moran´s tracks in your current state. Let my people do what they have been trained for."

Silence again. Sherlock´s hands twitch and he presses his lips together in a tight line. John senses that he is actually tempted to take Mycroft up on his offer. But finally the detective heaves a sigh. "I can´t speak for the others, but I will not go into custody again, be it protective or not," he replies softly. "Moran takes pleasure in the hunt. And it´s solely me he is hunting. If I can stop him I´ll gladly be bait." He looks up to meet his brother´s eyes. "Perhaps your people could help act as beaters. Let me think about it. For now, as I told you before, your leaving would be much appreciated."

Mycroft, who knows when he is dismissed by his younger brother, straightens and rearranges his jacket with his left hand, lifting the tip of the umbrella out of the rug´s strands with his right. "Very well," he agrees and John detects unease in his usual stern tone. "I will come back to you once the business with the illegal arms deal is settled." Sherlock nod is nearly imperceptible, and with a nod of his own towards John, Mycroft leaves.

John lets his newspaper drop and regards the frown on his flatmate´s face, the way his eyes search the lamp-posts outside and the windows of the opposite building. "No returning to custody anymore, hum?" he asks, and Sherlock´s eyes travel back towards John´s.

"No, John. Not as far as I can avoid it." Sherlock unconsciously starts to tap a rhythm on the armrest of his chair. "You can go of course, if you want. It would be rather advisable, in fact…" His voice trails off, and only the tapping fills the silence.

John shakes his head. "I won´t give Moran the satisfaction of knowing he chased me into hiding. Besides, who would look after you?"

Sherlock smirks, but stops his tapping, growing serious again. "What if it were not me who was attacked? What if it was Mary? Or Mrs. Hudson?" John stares back, suddenly filled with horror, a tight knot forming in his stomach. Could he ever forgive Sherlock if something happened to Mary? He honestly doesn´t know. Sherlock, who, as usual, has read John´s thoughts by interpreting the tiniest signs of confusion on the doctor´s features, nods and gets up. "Think about it, John," he says. "Tell Mary about Mycroft´s idea." He turns and looks down on the doctor, brows knitted. "You can´t help me in this. Neither can Mycroft. I must face Moran alone – as I did with Moriarty."

Again, John feels desperation and the urgent need to protect, to save. It´s irrational, and he wants to fight the image, but Sherlock´s blood-streaked face on the pavement in front of St. Bart´s appears in his inner vision, and his heart fills with horror just as it did at the sight of his fatally injured friend.

"Planning to die again?" he asks, deliberately attempting to keep his voice light. Still, it trembles with restrained fear.

Sherlock sends him one of his intense blue gazes, and his mouth quirks into a wan smile. "Not really. But if I intend to, I will let you know this time," he replies. "In the meantime, let´s cherish the peace and quiet while it lasts."

Both men stare at each other. None of them wants the quiet. Danger is so much more interesting, after all. But a threat on their lives falls into a completely different category. John wonders whether Sherlock will be lucky enough to escape a second one. He shifts in his seat on their sofa, rolling the mug full of cold leftover tea in his hands. "What would you do if you had only peace and quiet left?" he asks.

Sherlock, startled, scrutinises John´s face for signs of being teased, and when he finds none, smirks. "I´d be bored out of my skull." He leans back and trails the outlines of their living room windows with his eyes again. "Or I would go to the country. Yes, I think I would like to keep bees," he says dreamily.

Surprised and amused, John feels a grin spread on his face. He is sorely tempted to a light remark when he remembers he packed several books on apiculture into the boxes holding Sherlock´s belongings. And the serious expression on his friend´s face stops him from teasing the detective about this unexpected and frankly rather ridiculous idea.

"Not as ridiculous as you might think, John," Sherlock tells him, reading his unspoken thoughts, still slouching in his chair, eyes closed. "I´ve been dreaming of keeping bees for years." He opens his eyes and sends John a serious look. "It´s that kind of dream which helps you to continue, Dr. Morstan would say."

A dream of bees. A constant in hard times, leading towards an aim, a purpose, even when everything else falls apart. Is that what Sherlock is implying? That the image of a peaceful, humming hive has continually been a beacon through the turmoil of his life and mind?

John has never known Sherlock not to be serious when revealing personal matters. He will do what he can to help him reach contentment. Peace, he cannot promise. But he will do anything in his power to avert Moran´s attack on his friend.

* * *

In Regent´s Park, Dr. Mary Morstan stops under her favourite meadow, still panting from her daily jog. She always stops here to stretch and do some breathing exercises before she continues on her way home. Back where she lived before London, taking a jog was nearly impossible on most days. Either the surroundings were far from suitable, the weather conditions too bad or, in the case of the African country she visited with "Doctors without Borders" a civil war was going on. Or probably she wasn´t motivated enough because she didn´t feel the same elation she is experiencing now every time she passes the doorstep to 221 Baker Street – mainly on returning, that is.

Mary thinks of John, who has accompanied her whenever he found the time. She smiles, for he was genuinely surprised that she could match his pace easily. She has always been a keen and fast runner, and running with John has grown into a playful contest between them to see who will reach the meadow first and in good shape. She touches the tree affectionately, balancing on one leg while stretching the other, when a voice startles her and she nearly loses her balance.

"Dr. Morstan?" A man regards her, observant blue eyes boring into hers. He wears jeans and a black fleece jacket. His short, fair hair stands in stark contrast to the black. He teeters nervously on the balls of his feet, and Mary has the impression that there is more to him than his unobtrusive appearance indicates.

She cocks her head and takes a step back to stand next to the tree rather than in front of it. Stupid, she chides herself. Who would attempt to assault her in daylight after approaching her by calling her name? Still, the man´s presence makes her uneasy, and she takes another half-step back.

"Have we met?" she asks coldly.

"Oh, I´m sorry. Brian Jones from the "Daily Mirror". I thought you could answer some questions about Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson."

Mary looks back at the false smile the man displays and crosses her arms on her chest. "Don´t you think it would be far more advisable to ask them personally?"

Jones shrugs. "Oh, you know. Personal matters. Touchy subjects. Things people won´t talk about. That´s where we media people need to apply refined research methods." "Which consist of spying on people and trying to leach information on your victims from them?" Mary asks. The man already repels her, even more so as a spark of amusement appears in his eyes.

"I wouldn´t call it spying," he says. "Come on, surely you do know what´s going in at 221B. Are they really a couple?"

Mary´s eyes blaze. How dare this revolting guy try to use her to confirm the most ridiculous yet steadily persistent rumour about Sherlock and John´s acquaintance? "I don´t think we should continue this conversation," she says coldly.

The stranger looks at her, and his unappealing smile widens. "I see," he says. "Dr. Watson is a very lucky man. And Mr. Holmes might be a very unlucky one. Goodbye, Dr. Morstan. You helped me a lot."

He walks away, leaving a puzzled and, if she is honest with herself, slightly apprehensive Mary behind. Finally, she shrugs. She has had her fair share of conversations with media people in the past days, and most of them were weird, asking all kinds of questions. Jones is just another one of them.

She´d better return quickly, if she doesn´t want to be the one who misses Sherlock´s therapy session today.


	27. Seeing Them Off

"Oh Sherlock, it really feels like England is going to fall because I am leaving." Mrs. Hudson holds on tightly to Sherlock´s hands, brushing the reassuringly warm skin of his fingers. Only a second ago, she has been released from the detective´s firm hug. Tears are glistening in her eyes. In a minute, she will lose her boy again.

She smiles at him, sadly, and places her left hand on his cheek, on a spot where the faint yellow trace of a former bruise is still distinguishable. Sherlock smiles back and bends down a bit to make it easier for her to reach up. She tousles his black curls which are still far too short for her taste - she likes him much better with unruly strands of hair falling into his eyes - and straightens with a sigh.

"It is only sensible you leave Baker Street. You will be much safer in Bath," Sherlock assures her. The clouded sky and the swift early morning traffic passing them as they stand at their front door are intensifying the feeling of urgency which has been nagging at him ever since Mycroft visited. The sooner his landlady leaves, the better.

She chuckles and raises an accusing finger. "This is your way of telling me you are going to miss me," she colds him playfully. She shakes her head slightly, suddenly serious. "You know, the flat was far too quiet without you, Sherlock. No dashing down the stairs. No violin at three in the morning." She dabs at the corners of her eyes. "Promise me to take care, my dear."

He nods gravely. Even though he doesn´t share her sentiment, he hates to see her leave. During his exile, his concern for John´s wellbeing was somewhat dimmed by the knowledge that Mrs. Hudson would hold her protective wings over the doctor. Seeing her off feels as if the familiar spirit of 221 B were abandoning the building. Sherlock snorts softly. Look how far you´ve come, superstition and sentiment settling in, he chides himself, pushing his own feelings of loss back into the deepest recess of his mind.

"It´s such a shame I can´t stay," he hears his landlady continue. "We have hardly had time for a proper chat. I still don´t know anything about your time abroad."

This is true. In the three weeks since he has moved back in, they have seldom spoken. Yes, he has been seeking refuge from his persistent feeling of anxiety in her flat one or two times, but sipping her tea and listening to her chattering did suffice to calm him down. He had no intention to spoil the homely atmosphere with assertions about his absence, and Mrs. Hudson wisely refrained from pushing the subject. Now it feels as if he has made a mistake by not confiding in her, and this unsettles him.

He regards her with a dark frown. "There´s nothing much to report, actually. Except that I was disguised as a criminal."

She slaps him playfully on the chest. "Oh, you! You shouldn´t make fun of an old lady!" She regards him, notices his serious expression and wrings her hands. "But of course I know there´s always been a dark side to you. What with your black moods, and the shooting. And the mess you made of yourself before John…"

Sherlock stops her by taking her hand and placing a light kiss on it. "You always had faith in me, Mrs. Hudson. I hope I still deserve it," he replies with a smirk.

She chuckles. "Now, don´t play gallant with me," she chastises, and flicks a tiny fleck of dust from his sleeve. "Just promise to tell me everything when I am back."

Her small display of unease tells Sherlock that she is really worried. More for him than for herself, it appears. He, in turn, is glad that she agreed to leave London for the upcoming weeks. John and Mary, though, have shown no desire to seek refuge from Moran. John was adamant about staying with Sherlock at all cost, and Mary argued she would be sufficiently protected with an Afghanistan veteran at her side. Not to mention the presence of the world´s only consulting detective and several quite capable employees of the Secret Service. Her reasoning that she wouldn´t like to disrupt Sherlock´s therapy was the final straw that stopped both John and Mycroft insisting she leave. Sherlock still wonders why his brother shared Mary´s opinion that continuing their sessions while being faced with a highly dangerous and determined criminal lingering at their doorstep made sense. He would prefer to know that Mary was safe with Mycroft´s men.

At least Mrs. Hudson would be leaving London this morning. Sherlock, who has no desire to find her beaten and threatened by someone´s thugs again, is grateful for her departure. So he just nods, and Martha Hudson smiles, touched by his expression of relief.

There is nothing left to say, and he grabs his landlady´s bag and carries it to the cab, which already waits for her. When she is finally whisked away into the early morning traffic, Sherlock fails in disputing with himself that he already feels more forlorn than he has for the past three months.

* * *

It´s odd, Mycroft muses, that so much of his work is based solely on trust. The complicated and delicate matters he handles on a daily basis can sometimes only be brought to a satisfying end through deceit. There are several among his staff who bend the rules if it suits their purposes. What makes them valuable members of their respective organisations is that they know where to draw the line between honesty and crime.

He reflects upon the significance of loyalty. This virtue holds the same significance for his staff as it does for the members of the web. Basically. In reality, their aims are diametrically opposed. Still, the line between their two worlds can be nearly indistinguishable. It is a question of faith, mainly. For those who lose faith in the good cause, the line starts to blur. Sometimes - very frequently actually - a formerly loyal member of staff will aim for the wrong things. He will betray his employer and the nation´s interests. In most cases, sadly, it will be a highly talented and promising man who falls into the trap of deceit. Someone whose absence will tear a hole into the tight net of connections the Secret Service and the diplomatic corps have woven.

In this instance, it is a red-haired, green-eyed youth. He reads people well, and has therefore dealt quite efficiently with several affairs of foreign policy in his short, but successful, career. His family background and education make him the ideal candidate for a higher position in the diplomatic corps. And he is well-trained and a reasonably good fighter. A shame, really, that he has decided to cross over to the enemy.

Mycroft leans back, folding his legs, tugging at the legs of his trousers. "Malcolm Connor," he says. "Good to see you are back again. Can you fill me in on the newest developments in Egypt?" His counterpart sends him a peculiar gaze, but he keeps his composure, arms folded on his chest, scowling, as if thinking intensely. Mycroft, of course, does know when someone is deducing him. Connor must have been aware that he was dismissed from his office a few days ago. He must have heard the rumours that the Ice Man would most probably only return for the pending interrogation. That Connor has been summoned by Mycroft himself must at least have surprised him. However, the younger man doesn´t show any signs of unease, for which Mycroft silently gives him credit.

"We couldn´t really accomplish anything beyond scheduling the next meeting with the foreign minister," Connor replies.

"Ah." Mycroft leans back and cocks his head. "And the recent supply of firearms for Syria? How is that going?"

For the first time since Connor entered the room, he winces ever so slightly. Mycroft notices the slightly more pronounced twitch in Connor´s carotid, proof of a quickening heartbeat. In a display of false surprise and calm, the young man cocks an eyebrow. "Syria? My task was to monitor the developments in Egypt, not Syria," he replies innocently.

Mycroft nods. "Exactly. But you overstepped your authority." His eyes narrow. If it was Sherlock sitting opposite him, he would read this tiny change in his expression correctly as a sign of Mycroft´s rising fury. But Connor doesn´t seems smart enough to comprehend the seriousness of the situation. He probably even thinks he can escape unscathed. Overestimating his abilities, throwing caution to the wind. Sherlock would dismiss him as being commonplace and predictable.

"I know you weren´t appointed to the group concerned with the situation in Syria," Mycroft snaps, revealing his anger. He is granted the satisfaction of seeing Connor´s eyes widen in shock. Probably the man is at least smart enough not to underestimate the secret British government´s influence and power. "Too bad you became interested enough in the country to fake my signature on a very delicate document," he continues. "Or were you promised a sum of money you couldn´t resist? I heard you acquired a new car – I am quite positive that your usual income wouldn´t suffice to finance a luxury class BMW."

Connor stares at him. Beads of sweat are forming on his forehead, but still his stance doesn´t betray his nervousness. "Will you allow me to direct your attention to the fact that this is a very grave accusation, Sir?" he asks, his face blank.

Only a few months ago, Mycroft would have responded to Connor´s denial by prolonging their talk. He would have lulled his victim into the false certainty that it was only being tested. And he would have fallen on his prey like a hawk finally, revealing every detail of its atrocities. At present, though, he is void of all desire to take their conversation any further. All the Ice Man wants is to be reinstated to his position. With powerful enemies hunting him and his brother, he can´t spare a second on playing petty games. "It is no longer an accusation, as I have proof of your forgery," he retorts in his most slicing voice. "I am very sorry that I´ll need to dismiss you from my service, as you were quite a valuable addition. Please do me the favour of leaving this room silently. You are expected by two gentlemen. I am looking forward to continuing our talk later, in less pleasurable premises, I´m afraid."

Mycroft is prepared for nearly everything, but not for the abrupt change in Connor´s complexion to a deep red and his rapid lunge at him. He has barely the time to press the right button on his mobile before the youth´s hands fasten around his throat. Mycroft manages to catch him in the stomach with his right knee. At the same time, the doors bangs open, and two of his men rush in, one of them advancing upon Connor and hitting him in the head. The pain is enough to make Connor loosen his grasp, and the two agents instantly wrench his arms back to shackle him.

Mycroft stands, if a bit shakily, and fastens his tie. One of his men opens his mouth to say something, probably to ask whether he is all right, but he only nods and sends them away with a flick of his chin. He follows them out into the vast corridor, disregarding the stare of hatred Connor sends him as he is being led away.

He really needs some air now. And he needs to make some urgent calls. Hopefully, he will be able to depart for Oxfordshire in the early afternoon.

* * *

Six hours after Mrs. Hudson left, Sherlock is sitting in his favourite chair, the Stradivarius on his knees. He lovingly traces the smooth surface of his instrument with the fingers of his right hand. His left arm still aches from his recent pointless and painful attempt to lift the violin to his shoulder. He should have known that he wouldn´t be able to move his arm properly, let alone tuck the violin under his chin. He was so desperate to escape his looming depression that, for one moment, he didn´t think. His inattentiveness nearly caused him to drop the instrument when a sharp bolt of pain shot through his limb. Fortunately, he didn´t loosen his grasp.

Now, he sits and caresses the Strad as if he needed to apologise to the wood and metal. The dead object, which comes to life only when he touches it in the right places and gently coaxes its strings into singing with the bow, seems to be drowsing under his clever fingers. He leans his head back and tries to forget the agitation of earlier, the hopelessness he feels. It is so much harder to apologise to a human being, in this case, to Mary. To shout at her and storm out of her flat was far from appropriate. He should have expected her to ask him about his relationship with his father. He knows he felt trapped by her question, just as he did all these years ago, when he left Holmes manor for good after a most unpleasant confrontation with his parents. Mary´s question had only triggered a long hidden memory. His fury was, after all, not directed at her, but at himself.

Freak. Failure, Fraud - the making of the great Sherlock Holmes is a poem written in alliterations, he thinks sourly. His grip on the violin tightens as he feels the urgent need to smash something. Mary has tried to explain to him that his anger is perfectly understandable and a result of his captivity and helplessness, but he still blames himself that he hasn´t been alert enough to avoid getting caught by Moran´s thugs.

He´s angry, too, that John and Mary have decided to stay, despite the risk. This is what he had wanted to avoid with Moriarty: putting his friends in danger.

Sherlock snorts and tilts the violin slightly. All this would have been so much easier if he could have acted alone, as he originally planned. All this caring is driving him crazy. His caring is. As is the wait for his enemy´s next move.


	28. Futile Caring

John pushes the paperwork and x-ray photographs on his desk aside and tiredly rubs his hands over his face. Although the A&E has been brimming with activity all night, he and his staff have not been troubled by overly complicated cases. Two broken legs, one heart attack, and an acute appendicitis have been the most challenging patients of their early morning shift. Normally, John enjoys the hectic but immaculately organised bustle of the A&E and gets easily bored when the ten hours pass uneventfully. Today, though, he is grateful for the quiet. Being back at work after nearly two weeks feels alien, and his thoughts are travelling back to Baker Street every so often. As glad as he is that he left the still stifling atmosphere of 221B for once, disregarding Mycroft´s wish he stayed with Sherlock during the elder Holmes´ absence, he can´t stop worrying about his flatmate.

He yawns and stretches, checking his mobile with his left hand. No new messages from Sherlock. It should hardly surprise him that the detective has not yet resumed his habit of flooding John´s mailbox with text messages, considering how curt their conversations have been ever since Sherlock moved back in. John suspects that his friend´s short text to inform him of Mrs. Hudson´s departure – the first after his return – was meant as a peace treaty, a plea to return to normality. That Sherlock hasn't attempted to contact him ever since worries John more than he wild acknowledge. He still nurtures a bad conscience for staying the previous night at 221C, despite Sherlock´s affirmations that he would be perfectly all right on his own. Or, in the detective´s own words, that he was way past the stage where he needed a handler.

John, who is not half as convinced of Sherlock´s sobriety as Sherlock is himself, had smiled at the remark, pleased that his friend had revealed one more indication of returning to his old self. Now, at half past eleven in the morning, John can´t figure out whether the detective´s pointed silence is a good or a bad sign. He has been witness to how affected Sherlock still is by his traumatic experiences, after all, and is only too aware that the world´s only consulting detective is far too cunning in hiding information he doesn't want to reveal.

Trust issues, Dr. Watson? John asks himself with a streak of irony. No. Never with Sherlock. But then again – hasn't his friend deceived him gravely? What if he did that again; what if he has already forged a secret plan? Would Sherlock really stick to his word to tell John if he planned to expose himself to mortal danger? John shudders at the thought. He refuses to extinguish the feeble spark of trust which has kindled between them in the past days, and deliberately diverts his thoughts towards a more pleasing subject. Beaming with the memory of the previous evening he opens the most recent text from Mary. His smile fades when he reads her message, and he groans and massages his temples in frustration.

"SH stormed from my flat during our session. Danger?"

Danger? As in 'danger night'? He honestly doesn't know. Mycroft probably would. Mary is asking for John's advice, but he can´t very well recommend the most practical approach and send her upstairs to keep watch over her patient. Hopefully, Sherlock has found something to distract him, as delving into cases and playing the violin are currently out of the question.

John sighs and rubs his eyes. He weighs the mobile in his hand, considering answering Mary's text. He starts to type, hesitates, erases the words he has already written, and pockets the device. He grabs the bulletproof jacket from his chair and stands up. He'd better get home quickly. His presence will be more helpful than any words of advice.

* * *

"Mr. Holmes will most likely only face a fine, due to the fact that he handed the substance over voluntarily. He will face a charge for calling one of my officers an 'unimaginative imbecile', though." DI McLennan's voice is firm, only a hint of aggravation traceable.

Mycroft rolls his eyes in exasperation, directed both at the DI and his brother. Obviously Sherlock considers most members of McLennan's department not very valuable members of the police force. He was especially agitated that the DI refused to listen to his observations on the web's supply chains. Sherlock had spent enough time spying on London's drug scene during the winter to learn how Moran conducts his business, even though he failed to sneak into the colonel's inner circle.

McLennan seems to have built up a strong dislike towards the detective. He could only be convinced of Sherlock's knowledge when Mycroft confirmed it. Sherlock, in turn, loathes people who draw premature conclusions, especially about their fellow humans. Never form a theory without data, is his constant mantra.

"This charge can wait, I presume," Mycroft replies icily. "I take it you did follow my brother's hint on the delivery of raw opium via Delhi?" McLennan clears his throat. "We did and raided several cargo aircrafts at Heathrow. We found nearly three hundred kilos of it, packed in bales. Silk, actually. Your people have been most helpful."

"I sincerely hope so," Mycroft replies. "I recommend you follow the lead in Kent, too. It should not be too difficult to convince the local police of the necessity to investigate Moran's secret storage."

"It shouldn't." McLennan hesitates. "Concerning the charge…"

"Go and find the missing link in Kent first," Mycroft answers. "My brother will not be going anywhere." The DI can be very persistent, but now is not the right time to discuss issues concerning Sherlock. Cutting Moran and the web off from their supply is far more important than a petty accusation of insult. "Remind your people to be extra alert. And keep me informed."

Before he cuts the line, the exasperated sigh on the other end is clearly audible. He tucks the mobile away and stares out into the rainy April day. It is past noon, and Anthea should have sent the car already. The matter in Oxfordshire had better not wait. The potential buyer has displayed a keen interest in the object, and agreed on a meeting. If Mycroft settles the deal today, all can go as planned. He can't help but smile at Sherlock's predictable reaction. For once, he might surprise his little brother pleasurably. He refuses to pursue the question of whether he just intends to pay an old debt. After years of resentment and remorse, he considers it only appropriate to offer an unconditional gift.

* * *

John finds the flat silent. The Stradivarius nestles in its case on the windowsill, the ancient varnish a dark shade, matted by the dim light of the grey sky outside. It has returned to life with Sherlock's return, but now it appears abandoned and lifeless, even more so since the e-string is snapped. John has never known Sherlock to not immediately replace a broken string on his violin, and his concern for his friend intensifies.

He sighs with relief when he spots the younger man curled up on the sofa, wrapped in his favourite robe, facing the wall. Something in Sherlock's composure bothers John. "Everything all right?" he asks.

The detective turns and greets him with a glare. "How, do you imagine, can anything be all right?" Sherlock spits. "I'm far from being fine. Ever since I met Moran in Delhi, in fact." He sits up and ruffles his hair. The gesture is heartwarmingly familiar, and John nearly smiles at his memory of Sherlock sitting in the same spot, flatly refusing to be interested in the planet's movements and the solar system in general.

"That's certainly a first," John replies evenly, and Sherlock's eyes lock on his, a frown forming on the detective´s features.

"What is?"

John waves a hand toward his friend. "You. Reflecting on your psychological condition."

Sherlock looks at the floor and shakes his head. When he looks up again, his lost expression of earlier has been replaced by a familiar blue gaze of pure rationality.

"I was talking about the progression of my case, not of feelings," the detective retorts with contempt. "I am perfectly in control of myself. To control Moran is the challenge." He flings himself back into the cushions, covering his eyes with his right arm. "I'd appreciate it if you would refrain from diverting me from this problem with questions about my well-being," he concludes, dismissing John.

But the doctor has no intention of giving in so easily. "Is this what you told Mary, too?" he asks.

Sherlock jumps up and advances on his friend. "Since when is it your concern what I tell my therapist?" he snorts. "Do you think because you nurture a personal interest in Dr. Morstan…"

John stops him with a raised hand. He shakes his head. "Oh, please excuse me for caring. I will try to stop bothering you in future."

Their gazes lock, Sherlock's expression frustrated and angry, John's furious. After a second, Sherlock rakes his hand through his hair and turns to face the window. He nods. "That's probably for the best, as caring leaves one at a disadvantage, after all," he mumbles in a small voice.

John watches the detective's fists clench at his sides. He shouldn't really regret his harsh words, but, annoyingly, he does. 

* * *

The humming of the Jaguar's engine is nearly inaudible, the interior of the limousine shutting out any disturbances from the outer world. As the National History Museum and the Victoria & Albert pass by, Mycroft dials Robert Mulech´s number.

"Robert," he greets his old friend. "Just wanted to know whether everything went all right." He listens to the media mogul's explanations and cuts the call after a short exchange of pleasantries and the promise of another round of golf in the near future. Sherlock has managed to stay surprisingly civilised in his talk with Chris Carter. It is a good thing that the exclusive contract allows the Holmes brothers, and especially Mycroft, to control every single word which is distributed through Mulech's publications and broadcasts. It simplifies things immensely. His main focus now is to convince his superior and the interrogation panel of his unimpaired integrity.

* * *

Sherlock continues to stare out of their living room window. His knuckles are white from the tension in his hands, and John decides to lighten the mood. "At least you don't need to care about the media anymore, since you signed the contract with Mulech," he prods.

Sherlock whirls around and starts pacing, his hands clasped, his fingertips touching his lips. "That allows us to orchestrate what is being broadcast about me more rigidly, yes," he agrees. "But it doesn't protect us from Moran's spies." He tugs at John´s elbow, drawing him closer to the window. "Down at 224. Do you see him? He trailed me all the way to the Docklands today."

John´s eyes widen. On the other side of the road he can dimly discern the figure of a man, huddled in the opposite doorway to find shelter from the unrelenting rain. The man's face is hidden by the hood of his jumper, but he is nearly Sherlock's height and comparably bulky.

"I thought we were being watched by Mycroft's men," John remarks, and Sherlock's lips curl in an ironic smile. "And Moran's men follow Mycroft's," the detective replies drily. "As I said, to gain control over Moran seems to be more difficult than expected." He retrieves his mobile. "Apparently, he attempts to achieve the same aim, using these," he says and flicks the device at John´s face.

Aghast, John reads a message which could quite easily be dismissed as spam. But the words are clearly directed at Sherlock. "Need some? Get some? It´s all within your reach," it says. John doesn't need to continue reading to recognise the sick joke at his friend´s expense.

"That's about drugs," he observes.

"Yes."

"How long has this been going on?"

"Ever since I went to the Independent for my first interview," Sherlock answers.

"You are positive it is him?" John remembers only too vividly the few but pointed messages he and Sherlock received frequently from Moriarty. He seems to have rubbed off on Moran.

"Yes. He wants me to not forget. He wants to remind me that I am a pathetic junkie." Sherlock pushes the mobile back into his pocket and buries his hand there, too, shoulders hunched. "He wants to wear me down, and it´s working," he acknowledges softly.

John is tempted to wrap his arm around his friend's hunched shoulders, to protect him from his fear and pain. But, knowing that Sherlock would most likely shake him off, he refrains.

"You didn't delete them?" he asks, and it is more a statement than a question. Sherlock turns to face him. "No. They might serve as evidence in a trial," he answers.

John nods, scowling. "Do you think there will ever be a trial?"

"I hope so, yes." The detective removes his hand from his pocket and crosses his arms on his chest, turning to face the window again. "There won't be a trial if Moran dies, though."

"You're not a killer," John replies.

Sherlock huffs. "Are you sure of that, John? I was never very gentle in my interrogation techniques when Lestrade wasn't looking." He turns again, and frowns down at John, an expression in his eyes the doctor doesn't recognise. "I know how to kill. I shot a man, John. In self-defence."

John stares back at the sudden darkness in Sherlock's features. Since he has so far refused to learn anything about Sherlock's whereabouts in the past months, he has no clue what the detective has been doing. He wonders whether he ever wants to know any details.

Sherlock, who has watched him closely, nods. "I was disguised as a criminal," he says. "I was forced to act beyond the range of the morally acceptable." He steps nearer to the window again, avoiding John´s gaze. "It's not necessary to discuss this," Sherlock continues. "You don't want to know anyway."

John hears the dismissive note in his friend´s voice. Sherlock is trying to appear unaffected, he wants to erase his feelings. But John will be damned if he allows the detective to back out of this. Too clearly, he recognises Sherlock's words as a disguise for his inner fear of being judged, of being rejected.

He takes a step forward and touches his friend's arm lightly.

"Did you tell Mary?" he asks, and Sherlock shakes his head slightly, but determinedly.

"You should," John says and clears his throat. "I´m… I´m here to listen, too, if you want me to."

An ice-blue gaze is the answer, before the consultant retreats from the window to regard the doctor. "But, John, you said…"

John smirks. "I said I didn't want to listen to your explanations. But I also said I can't just stop caring. Let's proceed with me caring about your experiences abroad."

Sherlock's shoulders sag and he releases a breath of relief. "Yes," he agrees, his smile genuine.

* * *

It's only a one-hour drive from London into Oxfordshire, provided the motorway is clear and the weather conditions pleasant. The annoying rain does contribute to slowing their journey, and Mycroft is glad to have been able to leave a bit earlier than planned. He is listening to the ringtone, impatiently waiting for his brother to pick up. Even after several months during which Sherlock agreed to the necessity of keeping in touch, Mycroft still expects his sibling to ignore his calls. Sighing, he prepares to cut the line and send a text instead, when his brother's silky baritone greets him.

"To what do I owe the honour, brother mine?" Sherlock asks in the usual casually bored tone he reserves for his elder brother.

"To the fact that McLennan´s people found raw opium at Heathrow," Mycroft replies. "Two more weeks and we might be able to call a solid charge on Moran." The car passes the ridge where the M40 has just passed Stokenchurch Gap, the Oxfordshire landscape spreading out in all its glory before them, illuminated by rays of light which have found their way through the thinning clouds. Mycroft hesitates, drinking in a sight he never fails to relish when he returns to his family's home, and draws a breath to continue.

"Stokenchurch Gap?" he hears Sherlock ask, and smiles.

* * *

"I actually could use something to eat," John says, drinking in the sight of his friend´s rare smile. "We can talk over lunch, you know."

Sherlock nods and attempts to reply, but is stopped by his mobile´s ringtone. "Excuse me," he says, fishing it from his pocket. "To what do I owe the honour, brother mine?" he greets Mycroft and listens intently. Obviously, the elder Holmes has good news, for Sherlock's features light up, and he even smiles when he asks his brother whether he has reached Stokenchurch Gap.

A sudden vile screech and a deafening roar erase his expression of amusement and nearly cause him to let the mobile drop in mid-sentence. Sherlock goes rigid, hands shaken, his pallor white as a sheet.

Startled, John frowns, and regards the look of terror in his friend's pale blue eyes.

"Mycroft," Sherlock breathes hoarsely. "I believe his car crashed."


	29. Missing Traces

John stares at Sherlock. The detective´s hands shake so badly that he needs three attempts to hit the right button and shut his phone down. He looks up at the doctor, and for a short moment John glimpses the anguish in his normally so detached friend´s eyes. Then, ever so quickly, it is replaced by raw fury.

"Hurry up, John. We need to go," Sherlock commands, traverses the room in a few long strides and grabs his coat and scarf.

John, who has followed him to the door, frowns, not yet comprehending. "Where to?" he asks.

Sherlock sends him his best "what must it be like in your tiny little brain" stare and pushes the leather jacket into his hands. "To the Yard. And then to Stokenchurch Gap, of course."

John shrugs into his jacket, at the same time instinctively feeling for the Browning nestling at his hip, then remembering and cursing the fact that it currently resides in the Yard's evidence vault. Sherlock has already bolted down the stairs, and John hurries to follow him through their front door.

Outside, he catches up with an extremely agitated consulting detective who paces the pavement in front of Speedy's with the suppressed energy of a caged tiger while frantically drawing on a cigarette. The early afternoon traffic and several pedestrians pass them with innocent ease and agility, and John feels as if the outside world has changed to a surreal dream, and only Sherlock's nervousness is real.

"Do you really think…," John starts in an attempt to soothe, but Sherlock stops him with a raised hand, blowing out smoke with an annoyed flick of his chin.

"Of course. This accident didn't happen by chance. It was arranged."

John decides to give it one more try. They can't know yet whether it was a perfectly normal calamity, whether there has been any serious damage. If Sherlock storms into the Yard for nothing, he would certainly be less than welcomed. He is still banned from the premises, after all. In an attempt to make his point clear, the doctor grabs Sherlock's right arm and hauls his friend towards him, stopping his frantic pacing.

"Sherlock. It could be coincidence. We don't even know exactly what happened."

The detective regards him coldly and tries to yank his limb from John's grasp. "Do you really think I will wait until the police inform me that Mycroft has been in an accident? And for the police and Mycroft's people to contaminate the evidence?" he asks and attempts to raise his left hand to hail a cab. A sharp stab of pain shoots through his shoulder, and he wrinkles his nose in annoyance.

"All right. All right." John stops Sherlock by grabbing hold of his friend's arm and holding it down gently and carefully. He waves towards the traffic, where a cab is already approaching. "Let's see how Lestrade can help us." Sherlock nods and throws the cigarette butt away as the cab draws up. 

* * *

Twenty minutes later John tries to match Sherlock's long, determined strides to mount the stairs to Scotland Yard's main entrance. He fails to reach the revolving doors simultaneously with the detective, is forced to wait for a half-turn of the contraption, and eventually catches up with his friend at the security barrier.

Sherlock is barely able to contain his impatience as he glares down upon the officer in charge. The young man is obviously new to the job and determined to follow protocol strictly. He makes the mistake of asking Sherlock who he wants to see and what his business is, and is rewarded with a barked remark which is just short of an insult and the sight of the detective leaping over the knee-high barrier.

The youth stares at John, perplexed, and John smiles back and jumps, too, ignoring the deafening howl of the security alert. Three officers advance on them from the right, but fortunately one of the lifts opens at this moment, spilling out several members of staff. Sherlock squeezes in, John in tow, and the door closes just in time to shut the policemen out. The detective gives the doctor a sideways glance and John smirks. They stay silent on their way into Homicides and eventually Sherlock storms into Lestrade's office, resembling an avenging angel with his dark, blazing eyes and his swishing coat.

The Detective Inspector, who had been languidly skimming through a report, feet on his desk, jumps up when he sees them, spilling a mug of stale coffee on his file on Sergej Renko's murder. He swears under his breath and stares daggers at Sherlock, while he tries to wipe the brown liquid off the document. "What the hell are you doing here? Enjoyed your last stay too much?" he exclaims.

Sherlock, all nervous energy, stares back at the Detective Inspector, his brows knit, radiating urgency. "We need to go to the Chilterns, to Stokenchurch Gap. Mycroft has been attacked," he announces, deliberately trying to even his breathing.

Lestrade sends John a questioning gaze, and John nods in confirmation. "Mycroft's car seems to have crashed. It's more than likely he has been assaulted by Moran's people."

"Well," Lestrade says and scratches his chin, "the Chilterns are not exactly under the jurisdiction of the Yard. And you," he points at Sherlock, "are banned from cases, remember?"

The detective´s frown deepens and he balls his right hand into a fist. "I am allowed to approach the Yard for inquiries on cases concerning me. This does concern me," he replies firmly.

Lestrade rolls his eyes. "We don´t even know yet that there is a case," he mutters, but the look in Sherlock's eyes is request enough for him to grab his jacket and step around his desk. "For heaven's sake, let's get going," he sighs, and the two occupants of 221B Baker Street follow him.

* * *

One hour, a discussion with the Yard's security officers and several phone calls later the trio reaches the M40 on the Chiltern ridge. Mycroft's black Jaguar awaits them, abandoned on the lay-by, one tire flat, the bonnet and the doors at its left dented. Mycroft's driver, who suffered only minor injuries thanks to the airbag system, has already been wheeled to hospital by the medical team. The local policemen who are securing evidence are less than pleased to find themselves working side by side with an extremely agitated and meticulous consulting detective.

It is pouring, the already dreary afternoon rapidly deteriorating into a copy of the deluge. Greg and John wait in Lestrade's car while Sherlock accompanies the forensic team on their search of a wide stretch of asphalt and the nearby shrubs. It is evident that the car was shot at. Only the driver's skill prevented it and its passenger from sustaining greater damage. A small amount of blood and an abandoned umbrella are the only traces of said passenger. Mycroft has disappeared.

Sherlock follows every hint, examining the car, reading the skid marks, calculating the trajectory of the bullet which hit the tyre, conferring with the policemen about probable theories on Mycroft's abduction. All of this takes time, and all of this sets the attackers even more at an advantage.

After nearly two hours the detective sags onto the back seat of Lestrade's car. The never-ceasing rain has done what it can do best and soaked Sherlock's coat completely. He is dripping wet, his curls heavy with moisture, and shivering from the cold. His eyes are clouded by fatigue, his hair ruffled by the fierce wind. He looks exhausted and grim, and John is worried by the spark of despair in Sherlock's eyes.

The detective steeples his fingers, fingertips poising at his chin, and takes a deep breath. "DI Leyton agrees that we are not faced with a simple accident," he says. "It was a deliberate attack. The car was shot at. It is unclear whether its passengers or its tyres were intended to be hit, but since Mycroft is missing…" He stops to heave a breath, and stares out into the heavy rain. Greg examines him through the rear view mirror, wondering when he had last seen Sherlock so rattled.

John turns in his seat at Sherlock's last words. His friend sounded as unaffected and detached as ever, but he has noticed Sherlock´s frantic pacing, his chain smoking, his dark frown and his shaking hands. The detective has been trying very hard to keep up his professional appearance towards the policemen, but John won't be fooled by sharp remarks and Sherlock's deliberately elegant movements. He has witnessed his friend being on edge for several weeks now, and he won´t ignore the signs of his desperation.

"Sometimes people lose their memory when they experience a crash, and wander away from the scene," he remarks in an attempt to lighten his friend's mood, but Sherlock shakes his head.

"The medical team reported that the rear door on the right was closed when they arrived. If Mycroft had wandered off, he would most certainly not have been in any condition to remember to shut the door behind him," he replies.

"Abducted, then," Lestrade concludes, and Sherlock looks at him. "Most likely," he acknowledges grimly. "Fletcher's men are currently trying to trail my brother with their dogs."

John glances at his friend. "We are losing time," he states.

Sherlock nods. His eyes follow the small figures of two men who are leading their dogs over the stretch of asphalt which ends on the ridge. He is weary beyond the point where he can focus on his thoughts, and he feels guilt and fear nagging at his conscience. He would never have wished to endanger his brother. The people who planned this attack must have researched Mycroft's schedule thoroughly. Whatever they are planning to achieve, to Sherlock it looks suspiciously like the next blow to stop him, to bring him to his knees. Mycroft would never want Sherlock to relent. He has told his younger brother time and again that, if he were ever held hostage, he would happily prefer death over being used to blackmail the government. But if Moran is behind this… Sherlock runs a hand through his wet hair. He needs to think, he needs to draw a conclusion…

John's hand on his arm stops his rambling thoughts. "Sherlock. Robson is here," the doctor says gently, and Sherlock opens the window to look at the man who has approached their car. The ageing agent wears a grim expression and nods in greeting.

"There's nothing," he says. "They must have used a car. The dogs lost the scent."

"And if they did, he could be anywhere," Sherlock muses, and Robson nods again. Sherlock wrinkles his nose, his eyes darkening to a deeper shade of blue. "Thank you. We'd still be better searching the area."

Robson looks back at him, his expression serious. "I don't think you should stay, lad. You look awful."

"He looks like shit, in fact," Greg agrees, and Sherlock flashes him an annoyed glance. But John immediately takes advantage of Lestrade's remark. "You are dripping wet, you just recently had a fever because you've been exerting yourself too much, and you have been advised to avoid any extensive strain on your heart less than a month ago," he says. "We'd better get home. There's nothing left for you to do here, anyway."

Sherlock stares back at the doctor, eyebrows raised, but finally and hesitatingly nods and bids Robson goodbye. Greg, who has half expected him to put up a fight, opens the window, shouts his goodbye towards one of the officers, and starts the engine.

John heaves a relieved sigh on seeing Sherlock so easily convinced. Even though he can still feel the nervous energy the younger man radiates, he can read from the way Sherlock slumps into the seat how worn he really is. 

* * *

It is nearly dark and still drizzling when Lestrade drops Sherlock and John off at Baker Street. Sherlock doesn't argue that he can perfectly take care of himself when John orders him to strip off his clothes and get into a hot shower. He drinks the tea John offers him in silence, and obediently swallows painkillers, but refuses to have dinner. Instead, he retreats to his room, where John can hear him for the next hour pacing the space between his bed and the window.

Two hours later John, who has fallen asleep on the sofa, wakes with a start. He has been dreaming of Sherlock. The dream was peaceful at first, of a winter night with his flatmate curled up on the sofa, listening to music on his IPod, while John is typing away at his blog. The peace was shattered by thick black clouds of smoke which obstructed John's vision and swallowed Sherlock's relaxed features. John had cried out to his flatmate, trying to reach him, when his hand connected with a pile of books and he woke with a start, the familiar odour of cigarette smoke tickling his nose.

He opens his eyes to the sight of his friend, sitting fully dressed in his favourite chair, smoking. He regards John's startled gaze, takes another drag and stubs the cigarette out on a saucer.

"Just the one, John," he says. "I can't leave the flat tonight. I can't sleep or think, either."

John frowns. "Did you plan on getting out?" he asks.

"I wanted to contact the homeless network, yes. If Mycroft is in London they might be able to find him," Sherlock answers firmly.

John, who sees his worst suspicions confirmed, sits up and clasps his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. He looks at Sherlock, who has leaned back in his chair, his eyes on his violin. He won't look at me, John thinks grimly, and dismisses his anger at Sherlock's renege on his promise that he will not smoke in the flat. He can't be so pedantic as to reprimand his friend for a minor lapse when he has, in fact, managed to avoid a far bigger one, can he?

They stay silent for a minute, John at a loss for what to say, and Sherlock feeling he has already revealed far too much of his inner turmoil. After a while, he leans forward again and pierces John with a steady, sea-blue gaze. "I was desperate for an escape," he says. "But I won't try to chase my demons away with a hit. Moran already won once when he manipulated me with the drugs. I am not going to let him win again. And I need to stay alert – for Mycroft," he adds.

The detective's voice falters, and John's heart lurches out towards him.

"He won't win. We'll find Mycroft. It will all be fine," he says, chiding himself for the cliché, but Sherlock smiles wearily and sends John a look of gratitude. "I'd better be off to bed, then," he says and gets up, tiredly ruffling his curls.

John, who remains on the sofa, silently wonders whether his friend will yet need another dose of a depressant to get some rest. 

* * *

The first thing he notices is heavy rain hitting leaves and soft earth, muffled by a solid structure, either wood or brick - he can't tell. The air is stale. Inside a building, then. Small, it seems, as the rain sounds as if it is just short of hitting his head. Of course, a roof made of corrugated metal, hence the noise. It is unpleasant but not unbearably cold where he lies, and he is not shackled.

Why should he be shackled when he was travelling in his official car? Oh, yes, the screeching sound of tyres on the asphalt. The Jaguar must have crashed. But why is he here instead of in hospital? Enemies, adversaries, rivals – far too many, and far too many interested in his downfall.

He needs to open his eyes, to deduce his surroundings. Then probably he will know what happened and why. His sight is blurred. Bad sign. He is most likely concussed. His arm hurts and he can feel a bandage. But there were no doctors… Ah, they (whoever they are) removed the tracker. Cut it out. The one which signals his location. Might leave an ugly scar. Don't think of scars. Think of them. They were clever. But not so clever as to remove the tracker which will go off after 36 hours. Good. There´s hope there. Perhaps they were even so stupid as to leave him his blackberry. If he tries very carefully to reach it, he can send a message.

No, no, stupid. Of course they would not have left the device on him. But something is poking into his thigh. He just needs to grab it. Not a good idea to move - aggravates his headache even more. If only he could get up… No, he needs to find out now. Not strong enough to haul himself upright. Finally. It worked. Open your eyes, Mycroft. Look at their funny little present. A mobile, how innovative. Some kind of sick joke, rather. Why? Why a mobile? Try to keep up, will you. Oh, I do, brother mine. But I´m tired. At least you are safe.

His eyes close and he slips into a welcoming abyss of oblivion.


	30. Tempest Rising

Sherlock lies on his bed, the duvet wrapped tightly around his lean body, and listens to the glissandi of tyres on the asphalt and the pizzicato of the dripping rain. For the past three hours, he has immersed himself in the familiar symphony of home, which has receded to an accompaniment of the thrumming in his veins that despotically demands his full attention. He declined John´s offer of a sedative when he went back to bed in the hope that his weary body would conquer his alert mind for once. But sleep has eluded him so far. He has been assaulted by memories and images of his brother instead, the amount of information disabling his ability to analyse.

He is restless and regrets his decision of earlier, since craving is more persistent than ever. The duvet provides warmth, but no comfort. It only helps to wipe out the memory of his stalking through the heavy rain, searching for clues of Mycroft´s abduction, but not the fact that he still has not formed any theory about its purpose.

His restlessness makes him sit up against the headboard, the duvet still wrapped tightly around his shoulders, and grab a package of cigarettes from the nightstand. The familiar movements of pulling out a cigarette and lighting it should be comforting, but his hands shake ever so slightly. He dismisses his reaction as a result of weariness rather than feeling. John would be livid if he knew that Sherlock was currently literally blowing one of their most important rules of living together to the wind, but Sherlock can't care less. He needs to think, for God's sake.

He inhales, wishing he could be cold, detached, analytical, but fails. Whoever once stated that he does not possess a heart should see him now – desperate and exhausted by worry for his brother. Sherlock has, for all his snide remarks, always feared that he might be called in to investigate an attack on Mycroft one day. Now that the attack has actually happened, he is dreading his part in this game, as in all probability he is the cause for his brother's exposure to danger.

The thought of Mycroft held hostage, being at the mercy of ruthless characters, is keeping Sherlock soundly awake. The guilt he feels is threatening to erase all sense of clarity, and the familiar litany "fraud, freak, failure" rewinds in his mind.

He sighs, stubs out the butt and slumps down on the mattress, facing the wall, on which the streetlamps paint an eerie pattern of small squares. It reminds him of the paintings of M.C. Escher – reptilian creatures climbing and descending endlessly winding stairs, never going anywhere in a universe of black and white. How apt - he is stuck in an endless loop of never ending turns himself, which quite likely might lead into despair and nothingness.

No. He thumps his fist down with force. Delete that. There is always a way. He can still win. He only needs to get back to logic. He needs to dismiss feeling. But what if the enemy attacks him from an angle he hasn't anticipated? What if John again is their target?

He turns again to face the room, and sighs. You were right, brother dear, he thinks with bitter contempt. Caring is no advantage. He wonders whether his heart might break, were Mycroft's life to end.

* * *

Mycroft wakes from a sharp pain in his leg. He groans and tries to sit up, but the room starts spinning, and the nausea returns. After a short struggle, he manages to push himself upright against the wall. Cold creeps through his jacket and shirt and makes him shudder. While he didn't feel cold earlier, he now starts to shiver, and when he exhales his breath leaves in a small cloud of humidity.

It is still early spring, after all. He thinks back to a similar April night when Sherlock was forced to jump into a river after Mycroft faked shooting him, making his people and the web believe that Sigerson, an important member of the group around Morbier, had been executed. He remembers Sherlock's anger when he told him that he couldn't return home yet, and their inconspicuous farewell at Heathrow when Sherlock left for Nepal.

Mycroft smiles to himself, suddenly proud of his infuriating baby brother. Far too many people, first among them their father, have made the mistake of underestimating Sherlock's determination and willpower. Mycroft never has. Sherlock has always been a fighter. He managed to graduate despite his dabbling in drugs and the difficulties with his family, he survived on London's streets, and he successfully escaped the grasp of his persisting cocaine habit. Mycroft used to be constantly baffled by his brother's resources of strength, especially before and after the incident with Moriarty.

He himself has less experience with pulling himself out of desperate situations, but he does possess the same fighting spirit. He is a Holmes, after all, and he will not go down without a fight. Best to start with an estimate of his surroundings.

Whoever has dumped him in this freezing shed doesn't intend to starve him. A package of toast and several water bottles are piled up within his reach, and he grabs the first one he can reach and drinks in long, thirsty draughts. Surrounded only by inanimate objects he surely can allow himself the small comfort of letting his impeccable composure slip. He counts the packages and bottles. They amount to a supply for two or three days. If he isn't left to starve, his captors will need to come back.

His examines the locks at the small window and the door, and knows without needing to check that both are bolted and sealed tightly to hold him securely inside the hut. His gaze settles on the mobile, and he picks it up. No contacts, no messages, only a few pictures are saved. Mycroft thumbs through them and frowns. The images show Sherlock, beaten and bruised, barely conscious and, in two cases, high and completely strung out. Someone has provided cynical captions like "sleeping beauty" or "toy boy", and the elder Holmes feels disgust and pity hitting his stomach, making it hard for him to breathe. Even though his brother's medical report didn't mention any ominous injuries, and Sherlock claimed he couldn't remember details of what his captors did to him, the pictures speak of deep humiliation.

Mycroft feels the nausea returning as he thinks back to a particulary bad night when Sherlock literally crawled back to his doorstep for help. His homeless brother had fled from a particularly vicious dealer who wasn't content with getting paid in cash or making use of Sherlock's deduction skills. Sherlock had taken a far too high dose that night, and all Mycroft could think of was to get him to hospital and, subsequently, into rehab. Sherlock regarded his brother's concern as a breach of trust, and returned to his old ways as soon as he was fit enough to flee from the facility.

Mycroft swallows. He regrets his remark during their meeting at Buckingham Palace, that sex would alarm his brother. Sherlock is right, he can be a self-righteous, pompous git at times who would do better to shut up. He smiles wryly at the question as to whether Sherlock would miss insulting him were he to die. The thought makes his heart run faster, and he chides himself to focus on what he learned in his training as an agent, years ago. He is not dead, he can still fight. He takes another swig of the water, merely to remind himself of that fact, and sinks back on the wall, eyes closed.

I'm sorry, brother dear, he thinks. For all the times I protected and rescued you, you might be the one responsible for rescuing me this time.

He sighs. Caring is not only a disadvantage. It contradicts logic. And it jeopardises control.

* * *

John hurries up the seventeen steps to their famous flat, whistling a tune he heard at Tesco's only minutes earlier. He doesn't actually feel much like whistling, being on high alert concerning Sherlock, but the stupid song – something to do with how much someone feels like dancing - rewinds in his mind and triggers this ridiculous reaction.

He places the plastic carriers on the kitchen table, along with a plan brown paper bag holding freshly baked croissants from a nearby French pastry shop. Perhaps their delicious odour will coax Sherlock into eating - the detective usually can't resist croissants, as they remind him of childhood summers spend at his grandparent´s villa in Brittany.

John quietly traipses down the corridor and gingerly pushes the door to Sherlock's room open. The younger man is sleeping soundly, only a flock of dark curls being distinguishable under the covers. The doctor turn carefully, ready to leave, when Sherlock stirs in his sleep and thrashes out towards the wall, his fist connecting with the solid structure. He turns and blinks, focusing on John, frowning.

John smiles at him. "Hi there," he says. "I´m glad to see you actually slept."

"Mmh," Sherlock pushes himself upright, at the same time estimating the time by the angle at which the sunrays meet the floor through the half-closed curtains.

"It's nearly ten. There´s breakfast on the table, if you like," John offers, and is answered with a grunt.

Several minutes later, Sherlock emerges from his room, clad in his favourite gown, and one of his most tatty T-shirts and floppy trousers. His eyes light up at the sight of the croissants, and he eagerly delves into two of them, before he sinks back in his chair, absent-mindedly rubbing his left arm.

John, who has watched him, and clears his throat. "Why didn't you use a long-acting shot of Vanorexine?" he asks. "It would make things much easier for you."

Sherlock bares his forearm, and stares at the traces of recent abuse. He remembers the dream of Moriarty tracing the crook of his elbow with his index finger, leaving a red trail of dots and making his veins turn green, which has frequently harassed him since he returned to London. Green veins – where has he ever heard of such a thing? He can't remember. He can only remember that, in his dream, John dies. As John's trust in him was crushed by the betrayal of the fall. Trust seems to have been rebuilt. If Sherlock is not again forced to act on his own. If he is allowed to show John that he deserves to be trusted.

Sherlock looks up, and meets John's eyes. The doctor waits patiently, his fingers clasped around his mug, and the sight is so familiar and reassuring that Sherlock is tempted, for a second, to forget the presence and relish in sentiment. Sentiment, indeed – very well placed with a madman out there and his brother held captive.

He sneers, and shakes his head. "I react badly to the substance," he says, his voice detached. "In hospital, they didn't want to risk a potentially dangerous allergic reaction. I can't risk dying every nineteen months," he adds.

John nods, but an odd expression has replaced his encouraging frown from earlier. He gets up quickly, thudding his mug down on the table.

"I guess not," he says, and leaves for their sitting room, and Sherlock is painfully reminded that they are still only holding a truce – in fact, a very fragile one.

* * *

Sebastian Moran sits in Milverton's conservatory and looks at the lean, fair man who stands opposite him. He takes up the cup of coffee and takes a sip, thinking. The cup returns onto the saucer with a clinking sound, and Moran smiles. The young man heaves a nearly inaudible breath of relief.

"So it is true," Moran says. "The two doctors do share more than just a professional interest."

"They do share a bed frequently, Sir," the youth dares to answer, smirking, which earns him a frown from his older counterpart.

Moran sips at his coffee again, contemplating the question whether Milverton should resort to a nice, sparkling Italian espresso machine. When he was in Rome, he knew this nice little bar where he ordered the best cappuccino ever. And he was on a most thrilling assignment, something to do with the Vatican banking house and a cardinal. Quite a different life from the one he leads now, free to act on his own devices. Well, more or less, after his hunt for Holmes is over.

The youth stirs uncomfortably, watching Moran´s absent expression."What are we going to do about them?" he finally asks, in a nearly demanding tone which irks the colonel.

He sets down his cup on the small rattan table and leans forward, fixing the young man with his gaze. "Nothing. Not at present." He leans back and smiles cunningly. "The strength of the hunter is in waiting for the right moment. After he has cornered his prey, naturally."

"Or after he has set the trap," the youth replies with a self-confident smile.

Not your line, my friend, Moran thinks. The way this prat tries to worms his way in around him is disgusting. He waves a dismissing hand towards the man.

"You'll hear from me if I need you," he says. "Good work," he adds in an afterthought, and the broad smile on the face of his counterpart convinces him that he will continue to be careful with this one.

Moran is used to think not too highly of new members of their force, as about eighty percent get too greedy or to too self-conscious and fail to understand either the aims of the web or its hierarchy. Jim was a genius in building up an organisation where all positions and functions were clear, where everyone knew his superior. And he kept it all together, the spider at the centre of the web, as this Holmes person termed it.

The colonel smiles. He doesn't thrive on order so much as improvisation. To combine both has proved to be more than effective in previous years, and he has learned to pick up on any possibilities which present themselves for the web´s members. Seize the day, indeed.

He puts the saucer down and gestures for the youth to sit. "Tell me what you discovered about their schedule," he says. "I want to know every detail."

The young man takes his chair, lithe as a cat, and Moran admires his nerve, for he appears absolutely relaxed despite the colonel's dismissive note from earlier. He actually smirks again.

"It's not too complicated, really. You should make an easy catch." He leans forward and actually stares into the colonel's eyes. "What's far more useful for us is that Dr. Watson is absolutely besotted with Dr. Morstan."

Which gives us exactly the constellation I was hoping for, Moran thinks, and a faint smile tugs at his lips. He leans back, his left hands relaxing on the armrest, the right toying with his mobile. Still time to postpone the urgent calls he is going to make in a few hours.

"Go on, tell me everything," he replies. "Coffee?"


	31. In The Dark

The morning quiet of 221B Baker Street is transformed into hectic activity by midday. The place teems with policemen and secret service personnel who bug every phone available, run an update on the currently installed security equipment and examine the flat for evidence of intruders or suspicious objects. Not for the first time since Sherlock returned, John inwardly curses the fact that he has not already moved out. Sherlock, in turn, paces the living room nervously, more irritable than he has been for weeks, seething with contempt for the officer's apparent stupidity. John's concerned glances follow him like darts, which contributes to increasing his petulance.

When Sherlock barks at one of the officers that he is not to touch the crystal ashtray from Buckingham Palace - it is bloody obvious it will not deliver any clues to the identity of Mycroft's abductors, after all - John has had enough. He seizes Sherlock's arm, pushing him firmly down into his favourite chair. Sherlock turns to confront his flatmate with his most intimidating stare, a venomous remark on his tongue, but the doctor's serious expression and deep frown stops him.

Perhaps he's behaving a little “bit not good”, after all, he realises and shakes his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts. He tries to wriggle free of John's hand, but John only tightens his iron grip.

“Stop being a prick. They are only doing their job,” the doctor points out.

Sherlock sneers in contempt. “By making a mess of our flat? One would assume they expect to find Mycroft hidden behind a wardrobe or in one of the kitchen cupboards.”

John shakes his head firmly, his hand still locked on Sherlock's arm. He knows the detective is far too agitated to listen and relent. “They are only following standard procedure,” he says. “It is not their fault they have no idea where to start.”

“Is it mine, then?” The detective's voice has reached an alarmingly low growl, but John remains unfazed.

“You've been pretty useless the past two hours, to be honest,” he says quietly, and Sherlock opens his mouth to protest. John cuts him short with another resolute shake of his head. “You know how you get when you have nothing to work on. Take it easy for once. It's nobody's fault that your brother can't be located. We can only hope the team examining Mycroft's office will be more successful in finding evidence.”

The taut muscle under John´s hand relaxes marginally, and Sherlock bites his lip, not looking at his friend.

“I only want the investigation to proceed quickly,” he mumbles.

John nods. “I know,” he acknowledges. “Robson is due any moment. Perhaps he has news for us. If not, we can only wait for the kidnappers to instruct us.”

Sherlock flicks a glance of exasperation at John, and the doctor releases his hold. Both men are painfully aware that only in very few cases of abduction are the hostages' whereabouts disclosed before the abductors voice their demands.

Sherlock gets up and straightens. The officers, who have tried their best to ignore the tension between the detective and the doctor, continue in their tasks. Sherlock actually manages to watch and stay silent for ten minutes, fists balled tightly in the pockets of his trousers, balancing nervously on his heels. When one of them touches his violin case, though, he nearly jumps at the man.

“Leave this,” he snarls commandingly, and the officer retreats, startled.

Not even a second later, John has taken hold of his flatmate's arm again, yanking him back with a hissed “Sherlock!” while the officer raises his hands in defeat and escapes towards the kitchen. John scowls at his friend and shakes him slightly. “Calm down, for God's sake,” he chides, exasperated.

The detective attempts to wriggle free of John's grasp. When he doesn't succeed, he uses his most intimidating stare to frighten the former army doctor off. This doesn't work either. He grinds his teeth in frustration, and John feels the tension in Sherlock's arm returning.

Eventually, the detective succeeds in shaking John´s hand off, and he steps nearer to loom over the shorter man. “Calm down?” he mimics John´s voice. “You sound like our landlady. Good thing she's not here. She would most certainly offer me tea as a remedy.”

John stares back, unshaken. “Tell me, why do I suspect that tea wouldn't be enough?” he asks sarcastically, and Sherlock winces. He runs his right hand through his unkempt hair and looks around the room, taking in the six men who are still busying themselves with their investigations, his gaze finally settling on the familiar sight of the skull on the mantelpiece.

John takes Sherlock's silence as disconcertedness, and gently places a hand on his friend´s arm, this time not to intercept but to soothe him. “Why don't you go out for half an hour?” he suggests gently. “You've been caged inside since yesterday evening, worrying. Walking will do you good.”

Sherlock turns and looks at him, an unspoken question and an expression of dread in his eyes.

“I could accompany you,” John offers. “Or Mary, in case you´d prefer professional advice.”

I am neither a fool nor an invalid, Sherlock thinks bitterly, but scolds himself immediately for his acerbic thoughts. He knows perfectly well that his feelings of helplessness and guilt are in a large part triggered and intensified by withdrawal-caused anxiety. Every move the police and secret service men make only contributes to fortifying these feelings, trapping him in a vicious circle where logic threatens to fail him completely.

John wordlessly tosses him his scarf and grabs his own jacket, and Sherlock shrugs into the bulletproof version of his trademark coat. The familiar embrace of the warm fabric and the soft woollen scarf around his neck does soothe him considerably, and John discloses a means of escape by opening their front door.

* * *

As soon as they are out in the open, Sherlock feels he can breathe easier, and he slows perceptibly in his nervous movements. John watches him closely for any inclinations to flee, but the detective follows him obediently to Regent's Park and the lake, where John sits down on one of the benches, and Sherlock, always one for strange sitting positions, perches up on its backrest, retrieving his cigarettes.

“You'd better quit those, if you don't want to risk heart damage,” John remarks lightly, but Sherlock simply blows out the smoke with pleasure and watches the ducks, remaining silent. He sends John a sideways glance, musing on how the doctor always seems to know what works for him, even when he himself doesn't. It is sometimes alarming how well John reads Sherlock, and it has been a great help in more than one case in the past.

And it has been one of the reasons why Sherlock felt he couldn't reveal the tiniest detail of his strategy of solving Moriarty´s “final problem” to his friend. John would have seen through him, he would have wanted to stop him, to help, which would have complicated matters considerably.

He smokes, and the friends share a few minutes of quiet, when Sherlock's mobile beeps. He looks at it, frowns, and pockets it again.

“Robson,” he says. “He's on his way.”

“We'd better get back, then,” John replies. Sherlock doesn't answer but raises his hand, catching John's attention. His brows are furrowed in concentration as he stares intently at the nearby shrubs. But before John can ask any questions, Sherlock jumps up with a start and sprints towards the hedges and trees. John curses and follows him, as do the two security men who have tailed them inconspicuously all the way from Baker Street.

In the shadows, John finds Sherlock in a deadlock with a slim, young, fair man in a black fleece jacket. He has one arm secured on the youth's windpipe, pressing him back into a tree.

“Who sent you?” Sherlock hisses, eyes narrowed, tightening his hold of the man's throat.

John has never before seen his friend so feral, so dangerous, a thoroughly foreign expression of rage and cruel determination in his sea-blue eyes. Not for the first time in the past days he curses the absence of his Browning. He is about to ask what is wrong, when Sherlock's opponent yanks up his left hand, at the same time kicking at the detective's shin. Sherlock lets out a yelp of pain but doesn't release his hold, and the youth lunges out again, hitting the detective's left shoulder. Sherlock's hand flies to the spot, and John watches with dread as traces of blood appear on his friend´s coat. He has no eyes for the fleeing man, who is followed by one of the security guards. The second agent draws nearer and supports Sherlock, who is swaying slightly.

“Fuck!” John, for a second tempted to follow the chase, whirls around and directs his attention fully to his flatmate, who is bleeding at the right wrist, too. John's memory instantly draws up the image of Sherlock's blood-streaked face, and he curses again, trying to ignore the feeling of utter dread which is threatening to block out any professional thought. Instead, he resolves to action, and yanks his own scarf from his neck to cover the cut on Sherlock's wrist, before he takes Sherlock's scarf off and presses it down on the shoulder wound.

“Jesus Christ! Did you intend to get killed before my eyes?” he asks, fuming. “He missed your carotid by an inch.”

Sherlock, who is breathing heavily, shakes his head. “Of course I didn't. Don't be dull, John. That was one of Moran's men.” He turns and regards the second security guard who has returned from his unsuccessful hunt. “He was desperate to escape – assigned to some pretty important business, I should think,” Sherlock continues.

He stares at something behind John, and John turns and spots Mary approaching them, wearing her running outfit, balled fists and tight lips indicating annoyance and worry.

“I've seen him,” she says, panting. “Your guard wasn't fast enough. He went this way,” and she points out a path which leads to one of the main streets. If the man has reached the park's gates, he will be gone already, mingling with the capital´s crowds, John realises. “He has probably had a car waiting,” Sherlock hisses through clenched teeth, reading the doctor´s thoughts. John, who is still trying to stop the bleeding, reaches out for Mary with his unoccupied hand and places a tender kiss on her cheek.

“He was probably waiting for you,” he says, and Mary scowls.

“At least he wasn´t expecting Sherlock,” she replies. “He was watching me running up to the willow from over there. Sherlock's attack was rather unexpected for him.”

Sherlock turns and looks her in the eyes. “How do you know?” he asks, urgently.

“He has been watching me run for several mornings,” Mary replies. “When you approached him, he was still staring at me. He didn't see you coming, and I doubt he expected you.”

John balances on the balls of his feet, the soaked scarf still pressed tightly on the wound. “He could be a stalker,” he says, but Mary shakes her head.

“He asked me strange questions a few days ago. He claimed to be a journalist. But he had this leering grin…” Mary shudders at the memory. She has actually been afraid of the strange man, but dismissed her feelings as a result of her overactive imagination and not relevant.

Sherlock grasps her arm, escaping John´s ministrations by his movement. “How many days ago?” he asks.

“Two,” Mary replies. “When Mycroft visited about the contract and John didn’t accompany me for our daily jog.”

Sherlock looks at her, frowning. Something nags at the back of his mind, but he can´t piece the bits of information together. The man looked familiar, and he is quite sure he has seen him around Moran, most probably when he was held captive by the colonel. That Moran has him monitored them so closely is disconcerting. Even more worrying is that he can't imagine what the colonel's plan is.

With Moriarty, he only needed to decipher the references the mastermind criminal provided. But Moran provides nothing, no puzzle, no data, no bait. He lurks in the dark, waiting for the right moment to catch his prey. And this is what frightens Sherlock more than he wants to acknowledge.

He winces, pressing the soaked scarf tightly on his wound, and John pushes him lightly.

“Let's get you home and me to look at that,” he says. “There's nothing left for us to do here.”


	32. Igniting The Flame

Back at the flat, John tends to Sherlock's injuries while Robson, who has arrived with two of his men, reports the results of the examination of Mycroft's office and house.

The stranger in the park has applied a deep cut to Sherlock´s wrist and a nasty sting to his already bad shoulder. The shoulder wound is bleeding profusely, and John does his best to still the blood and apply a pressure bandage. Sherlock is pale from pain and shock. He sits on the sofa, head leaning back on the cushions, eyes closed, listening to Robson's findings with intense concentration. When the agent´s talk has ended, he sends him a dark stare clouded with worry.

“We have nothing, then,” he says hoarsely.

Robson nods. “They were very careful not to leave any traces, yes,” he says. “We can only wait for them to contact us.”

Sherlock snorts, and John detects a spark of amusement in Robson's eyes. The elder man actually dares to stretch out a hand and pat the detective lightly on the shoulder.

“You never were one for patience,” he says, and Sherlock's face lights up marginally. “But, lad, this is unfortunately what we are left with.”

Sherlock looks into Robson's grey eyes, and feels transported back to a time when he barely knew the man and considered him a nuisance. Robson was assigned by Mycroft to watch over Sherlock when he lived on London's streets. He earned the younger Holmes' respect long ago, and Sherlock knows he can thoroughly trust Robson´s scrutiny and skill. Still, they must have missed something…

“Have you analysed his calls?” he asks, and Robson nods.

“No unknown numbers, no dubious messages.”

Sherlock, freed from John´s doctoring, leans forward, and steeples his fingers.

“The remaining tracker…”

“Will go off after…” Robson looks at his watch. “thirty-six hours. That's ten hours from now. At midnight.”

Ten hours. All kinds of things can happen in ten hours. What if they are too late for a rescue? What if they find Mycroft beaten and tortured? John seems to read Sherlock's thoughts. “Don't,” the doctor says. “Don't think about it. We´d better focus on a rescue plan, so we can be swift when he is found.”

Sherlock nods. He looks at Robson again. “I want everybody to leave, except you and two members of the specialist team. Get me the report on the search in Oxfordshire. Mycroft's abductors can't have risked too much – they would want to reach him quickly, so he's probably only a half-hour drive away from London. And get me access to his data-base.”

Robson nods, and leaves. Sherlock leans back again, exhausted. He shifts to grab his shirt and dress, when he feels John's gaze linger on his bare chest.

John frowns and points at the scar on Sherlock's left arm. “You were injured while you were away,” he says, and Sherlock detects the question in the doctor's light tone. “The wounds have been treated properly,” he adds, and Sherlock heaves a sigh.

“A graze, Belgian hospital. Cut by a knife, medicated by an Indian slum doctor. And a stab wound, treated by Molly. Do you want to know the details?” The detective´s voice is even and John remembers their recent talk and his promise to hear Sherlock out about his experiences. He looks back with a serious expression in his eyes.

“You could have died several times. I wonder how many of your nine lives are left. But no, let us talk another time. We need to focus on Mycroft.”

We certainly do, Sherlock thinks, nevertheless regretting that he will still not be given the chance to tell John everything. If they are very lucky, they might be able to relax sometime tomorrow. If they are not – he doesn't want to think about it.

* * *

Soft white bread, untoasted, is not one of Mycroft's favourite foods. So far, he hasn't touched the package. He's still slightly nauseous anyway, and water is all his stomach can take at the moment. Sherlock would probably tease him about his involuntary diet, knowing that he has lived on next to nothing for the past twenty-four hours. Sherlock. In ten hours Mycroft's second tracker will go off, and his people will be able to trace this desolate hut. He only hopes his little brother is still safe.

Mycroft is not used to being cut off from a constant stream of information, and he is itching to know who has locked him in and why and what is happening outside his prison. His mind, deprived of further input, has been running in circles for the past eight hours, supplying all kinds of scenarios. As long as he has no proof of his theories, he is helpless.

He takes another swig from his water bottle and nearly lets it drop when the phone chimes. The cheerful tune is cutting through the quiet, which has previously only been interrupted by a consistent dripping from a far corner of the roof and the rustling of the trees outside. Mycroft stares at the device, hesitating, before he picks it up and answers the call.

“Mycroft Holmes – or do you prefer to be addressed as the brain behind our administration?” a calm, cultivated voice greets him. “I hope you are not too uncomfortable in our little retreat.”

“Not much, no,” Mycroft replies in his most official voice. “You provided shelter from the rain, and food, after all. It's a shame the door is locked, though.”

His counterpart laughs. “Oh, I bet it is. You could have enjoyed the countryside. I take it you are a very busy man. A short break does wonders for the spirit, you know.”

Mycroft cocks an eyebrow. “Oh, does it?” He shifts to take some weight off his bruised leg. “What would you say if I told you I don't believe you only wanted to force me into a break from my work?”

The man laughs again. “I'd say you are right. I'd be greatly disappointed if you weren't – according to your brother, you are practically running the government.”

The caller hesitates, and Mycroft tries to remember whether he has heard his voice before, probably on one of the secret service's tapes. He curses his inability to remember voices correctly. He is far better equipped to memorise faces and names. At least the man's diction and articulation are collected and calm, which is a big improvement from the way Moriarty used to talk. He listens to his counterparts breathing, and he realises that the man is enjoying their conversation. Far too much, in fact. There´s a tangible feeling of triumph in the man's voice which Mycroft doesn't like one single bit. He hesitates to answer, and the man sighs.

“As much as I enjoy talking to you, I'd prefer to talk business,” he says. “You have probably noticed that we have removed the tracker in your arm. And you probably think you'll still be on the safe side with the one which will go off in ten hours.” The man pauses. “I am very sorry to assure you that one of my men will keep you company in six hours. He will bring a gun.” He pauses again, letting his words settle in, but Mycroft remains silent. If this lunatic has more to say he certainly will, whether he spurs him on or not.

“You are not going to ask me why?” the anonymous caller says.

“Why should I since you are telling me anyway?”

“Jim would have said it would be more fun,” the man replies, and everything falls into place. The cultivated voice must belong to Sebastian Moran, second in command to Moriarty, by now probably first. Mycroft closes his eyes. This is not one of his enemies, this is his brother's opponent.

“What kind of fun are you talking about?” he asks through clenched teeth.

“A final talk with your brother,” Moran says. “What better way to convince him of the urgency of my wish than telling him his elder brother will die if he doesn't comply.” Moran heaves a breath. “It's an easy equation – either his life, or yours. I know he is a very sensible man, if a bit distractible. Let's hope your brother takes the right decision.”

“What if he doesn't?” Mycroft snarls, shaking with anger.

“I would never raise the stakes without an ace in the hole,” Moran replies. “Actually, I expect him to need some more incentive – you are not too close, after all.”

The line goes dead, and in a wave of fury, Mycroft nearly throws the mobile against the nearest wall. All this has not been staged for him - it has been staged for his brother. And his hands are tied. For all his caring, he can't shield Sherlock from Moran's next move.


	33. Flying Into The Flame

_The moth don't care if the flame is real_  
 _cuz flame and moth got a sweetheart deal_  
 _and nothing fuels a good flirtation_  
 _like need and anger and desperation._

_Aimee Mann / The Moth_

* * *

 

John sits in his favourite chair, the Union Jack cushion squeezed down tightly beneath his elbow, and watches Sherlock. There hasn´t been much to do for any of them in the past three hours. Sherlock has eagerly delved into studying files on his notebook ever since the access to his brother´s database was cleared.

The detective was called by Mycroft´s superior some time earlier. He demanded that Sherlock follow the Secret Service´s instructions in case the abductors contact him. Sherlock was less than compliant, rang off rather rudely, and resumed pacing the room and alternately stepping outside for a fag. He is clearly rattled by the fact that Mycroft´s abductors still haven´t voiced their claim, and was getting more restless and irritated with every passing minute until he was able to resort to his research.

At present, he hunches over the screen, the dim light changing his eyes to an iridescent blue, his brows knitted in concentration. Any stranger would be fooled by his calm demeanour into assuming he is perfectly in control of himself. Only his hand, which comes up to his shoulder every now and again, slim fingers absent-mindedly rubbing the spot where the knife hit, betrays his nervousness.

The doctor in John can hardly refrain from jumping up and slapping Sherlock´s restless fingers away, but the friend in John recoils from interrupting the detective´s concentration.

John is far from calm himself. The wait is getting to him, too, and the mug of chilled tea in his hand has made a repeated tour from the armrest of his chair to the tabletop, and vice versa.

John´s eyes linger on Sherlock. He recalls the first time they met. The detective was clearly more interested in examining a specimen than in his visitors. When he eventually looked up, it was with the same slightly distant scrutiny he used to regard blood samples or corpses, John realised later. When the two of them met at 221 Baker Street later that day, Sherlock´s eyes had lost their alien look from earlier, showing a truly beautiful light blue, lightning up with pleasure that John had actually kept their appointment.

Over the following months, John relished every moment Sherlock´s eyes acquired a lighter shade due to delight. Later, he learned to dread the hours when they lacked their spark and darkened to an indefinable hue, indicating boredom and desolation.

Expressive eyes, filled with curiosity and cunning. Blank, unseeing eyes, staring up into a clouded London sky. Eyes John has not expected to ever see light up again.

Suddenly, painfully, John realises he is actually more than relieved to have his impossible, infuriating flatmate back. Every attempt to fool himself into believing he was done with Sherlock was just a delusion. John hasn´t felt as alive as he currently does in ages. A part of him had died with Sherlock. John is still not sure whether he will ever feel whole again, but he seems to be healing.

He clears his throat, and the detective´s intense gaze flickers from the screen to the doctor´s features, questioning. John shakes his head slightly for an answer and gestures at his shoulder.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose, realising what his hand is doing, and stops the movement before he returns his attention to the screen, the dim light accentuating his haggard features.

Sherlock still doesn´t look healthy. He certainly needs to rest and feed himself. John shudders as he tries to imagine what condition his friend must have been in when he was found at Hyde Park two months ago.

He feels grateful for Mary´s presence in both their lives. She is the first woman John has known who can not only put up with the detective, but who reads him nearly as well as John does. Their relationship is not only a professional one, it is shaped by mutual respect, and borders on friendship. Sherlock, who either trusts a person instantly and unconditionally or after a period of deduction and analysis, clearly trusts Mary. Which is a good thing, John muses. Sherlock certainly deserves more than one friend in his life. And he deserves to overcome his trauma.

The mug is ready to start its twentieth trip to John´s lips, when the detective unfolds his hands and begins to type. He pauses after a short while and focuses on the opposite wall, unseeing. Sherlock could have been gravely injured today, had the stranger intended to inflict serious damage, John recalls with a feeling of relief. He leans back and sips on his tea to divert his thoughts from the incident, and grimaces at the repelling taste. With a grunt he gets up and walks into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

He is about to return to the living room when Sherlock´s mobile chimes. In a few strides, John crosses the space from the kitchen door to his friend´s side. Everyone present has gone silent while the detective opens his message. He reads, pales, and his hands start to shake, but he gets up in one fluid movement, outwardly calm.

He turns and looks at John, his eyes locking on the doctor´s features like laser beams on a piece of metal, ready to cut. John, who has long adjusted to being used as a beacon for Sherlock´s radar, to "guide his light", as the detective termed it once, instantly knows what the message is about.

"They want you," he says, hoarsely.

Sherlock nods. "We have thirty minutes," he replies evenly, and turns to face Robson. "It´s Moran. He wants a talk with me, he says. No weapon, no tracker."

"There´s no way we can let you go without a tracker," Robson answers, and their eyes meet. Sherlock frowns, raises his poised hands to his lips, the mobile clutched tightly between them, and starts to pace.

Reaching out his hand to get his friend´s attention, John steps into his way. "You don´t seriously assume Moran only wants a pleasant chat with you?" he asks, and Sherlock stops.

"Of course not," the detective replies, frowning. "This is an exchange. He will let Mycroft go if I turn myself in." His voice is as calm as if he were reciting the weather forecast.

"You can´t," John exclaims, riled by the detective´s unaffectedness. "He´ll kill you. He intended to kill you last time, remember?"

Sherlock winces, but manages to keep his composure and hold John´s stern gaze. "I certainly do, John. But Moran has Mycroft. Logic dictates…"

"To hell with your bloody logic," John explodes. "This has nothing to do with logic but with your feelings of remorse towards your brother. You can´t just walk up to Moran and say hello, for God´s sake! He wants you dead! Tell him we need more time – surely his call can be traced." 

"I doubt he used one of the customary lines," Sherlock explains. "But a tracker on me would certainly help us to locate him."

"Sounds like a good plan," Robson cuts in. "If you intend to follow his instruction, lad, you can´t leave without a backup anyway. Ask him for more time. Then you go. Once we know his location, we can activate our forces."

Sherlock looks at the agent, his brows knit. "How long do you need to get the tracker and your equipment ready, and get your men?" he asks.

"The tracker - in a few minutes, the equipment and our people – one hour," Robson replies, and Sherlock nods.

"Good. Let´s start, then."

The sudden bustle of activity doesn´t surprise John. He´s surrounded by professionals, after all, and he has seen enough military action for a lifetime. All three agents seem to retrieve their phones simultaneously to call different divisions for diverse requests, while Robson steps up to John, a small, medical-looking device in his hand.

"Dr. Watson? May I ask for your assistance?"

John looks at the inconspicuous tool, then at Sherlock. The detective has butted in his request for more time already, his features hard, and waits for an answer. When the mobile announces a new message, his features darken even more while he reads it, but he nods.

John regards him with concern. Something about Sherlock´s forced calm doesn´t sit right, but John ascribes this to his friend´s current mood swings. He nods at Robson. "Of course. Where is it usually placed?"

"Upper arm or thigh," Sherlock has approached them, beating Robson to the punch. "I´d prefer the thigh, though, considering my injuries."

John weighs the small contraption in his hand. "How long does it last?"

"Twenty-four hours," Robson replies, and both men look at him. None of them wants to voice their concern about what might happen should Robson´s men not successfully locate Sherlock in time. Sherlock is the first to speak after several seconds of silence.

"Can it be removed?" he asks Robson. The agent shakes his head.

"Only with difficulty," he says. "It´s not easy to trace, and we´ll get an alarm when it´s touched. If someone tampers with it, we will at least know the spot where that happened. Leaves us with a better chance to follow you."

Sherlock nods and looks at John, who nods at Robson and takes the device from the agent´s hand. A few minutes later, Sherlock is equipped with the tracker. From the darkness in the detective´s features John guesses that he is far from comfortable posing as a living survey mark for the secret service´s GPS system.

He smiles faintly as Sherlock rubs over the spot on his thigh where John applied the microchip, and Sherlock frowns back at him.

"I just hope Mycroft never finds out about this," he says wryly. "He would rejoice if he knew I agreed voluntarily to being surveyed."

"Well, it´s for a cause," John replies, and Sherlock snorts.

"Not for a good one," he says, and the doctor finds himself momentarily at a loss to comprehend whether Sherlock is talking about Moran´s intentions or rescuing Mycroft.

Sherlock gets up gingerly and walks towards the living room table, when his phone chimes again. The detective stares blankly at the new message before he shuts it down.

"New message?" John inquires, and Sherlock looks up sharply.

"Nothing of importance," he says, waving a dismissive hand. "Mary. She wants you to know she left earlier for King´s Cross to attend the symposium at Oxford."

"Why tell you?" John asks, bewildered.

"She couldn't reach you. Probably your phone isn´t charged," Sherlock replies, gets up and pockets the device. He doesn´t look at John while he walks over to the hat stand to grab his coat.

"I… I think I´ll go downstairs for a fag. Won´t be long." He flashes John a fake smile and dashes for the door.

Immediately suspicious, John watches the detective leave. He has seen this smile before, and it usually indicated a reckless plan or one of Sherlock´s ruses to coax information from a witness. The doctor exchanges a glance with Robson, who cocks an eyebrow at John´s questioning expression.

"There´s two of our men downstairs," Robson says. "But you´d better follow him. The lad´s quite skilled in disappearing, you know. Not that he has a reason to, though."

"I can think of several," John counters, and slams the device down on the tabletop. If anyone knows about Sherlock pulling stunts, it should be him, he thinks bitterly as he shrugs into his jacket. "Back in a minute," he announces, and the agent nods his agreement.

"We´ll stay on alert," he answers reassuringly.

* * *

Outside, Sherlock is nowhere to be seen, and John stops for a second, desperately searching the street for signs of his friend. His heart races when he spots the detective stepping out of Speedy´s, unwrapping a new packet of cigarettes. The younger man stares at his mobile, frowning, unaware of John´s presence.

In horror, the doctor watches his friend raise a hand to hail a cab. He swears under his breath, and covers the distance between them in a few determined strides to push Sherlock back from the kerb.

"What do you think you are doing?" he shouts, and Sherlock looks down on him, determination written on his features.

"Leave," he says flatly. "Stay out of this, John."

John pales. "It was Moran who sent the text, wasn´t it?" he inquires. He should have known better than to believe the text was irrelevant. He should have been able to decipher the tiny peculiarities in Sherlock´s demeanour of earlier. But self-blame won´t help now, he needs to accompany Sherlock, he needs to protect him.

Sherlock looks at John with a spark of pity in his eyes, undoubtedly reading his thoughts.

"He wants me, John," he says. "He wouldn´t give me more time – he sent me a picture of Mary instead, to prove his point."

John´s eyes widen. "Oh my god," he breathes. "Does that mean…"

Sherlock runs a hand through his curls. "I honestly don´t know," he says. "It seems he is able to endanger all of you in case I don´t comply. Tell Robson I´m gone. He´ll know how to trace me."

John shakes his head, violently. "No way you´ll be going alone. I am coming with you. I need to. If he has Mary…"

Sherlock seizes his arm, hard. "Listen, John. He wants me. He has allowed me ten minutes to be picked up. It would not be sensible for you to stay."

John tries to lunge out and free himself, but his biceps are trapped in a dead grip, and Sherlock´s eyes bore into his with an expression of finality. John stares back, enraged. "You are not going on your own," he shouts.

Sherlock shakes his head and laughs mirthlessly. "Oh, John. Don´t you see? He has Mycroft. Probably Mary, too. I can´t allow him to get hold of you as well. If Moran suspects only for a second his plan is being thwarted, he will react – and badly. I must do this alone." He raises one hand, running it over his forehead. "Don´t try to stop me – please," he pleads quietly, his hands trembling and releasing its grip.

The former army doctor still struggles against his friend´s grasp, and nearly stumbles when he is suddenly released. Sherlock has already covered some distance towards the next crossing, but John lurches forward and blocks his way.

"You are in no shape to face Moran. I´ll go with you," he says firmly. "You´ll need help."

"I doubt it," Sherlock replies in a hoarse whisper, and in the next second all John knows is a sharp pain as the detective´s right hand connects with John´s chin and his knee with John´s abdomen. One part of John´s brain registers that his friend has improved a lot on his fighting skills, and second part notices not only the pain but the fact that his best friend has just knocked him down. His vision blurs, and he sags down onto the pavement.

The last thing John is aware of is Sherlock´s eyes boring into his and his friend´s silken baritone, tinged with sadness. "I´m sorry," the detective whispers. "Goodbye, John."


	34. Ready To Burn

Sherlock runs towards the crossroads to Marylebone Road. He´d better get a cab there, in case Robson has become suspicious and followed John. Besides, it´ll be easier to get a cab there than in Baker Street. He has already lost precious time by talking to John and has only minutes left to appear at the meeting point where Moran´s men are waiting. The message was clear enough: if he is only one minute late, Mycroft will suffer. Moran left it to Sherlock´s imagination whether he intends to kill or torture his brother, and Sherlock wouldn´t put either past the colonel.

He was ordered to come alone, and he is glad to have escaped 221B and John. John, who he had punched minutes ago. Fortunately, he knows enough about human anatomy that he was able to avoid inflicting serious damage on his friend. He mainly attempted to knock the wind out of John, to incapacitate the former army doctor enough to escape him.

Still, he feels shame burning in his chest. The only time he ever hit John was when he recovered from his last relapse, in a state of insanity, desperate for a hit. He had sworn afterwards he would never again raise a hand against his friend. But hasn´t he also recently promised to never again leave him without telling him? He smiles bitterly at the memory of their talk. That did work quite well, didn´t it, he asks himself sarcastically. What he learned from the Fall and its aftermath hasn´t changed what he ever was: a smug bastard who uses people, disregarding their feelings. A fraud. A failure.

At least his message must by now have alerted Robson of his absence and the state he left John in. Probably John will be able to forgive him once he is finished with Moran – or Moran with him. But if Mary is hurt…

He shakes his desolate thoughts off when a cab curves in on him, and quotes the cabbie an address which is only a five minute drive away – so very far already from being home, being safe. The cabbie, not pleased with the short ride, grunts and steers slowly into the early evening traffic. When he shows no inclination to hurry up, Sherlock barks an order at him and waves a fifty pound note in the general direction of the driver´s seat.

The cabbie´s eyes widen, and he revs the engine and attempts to start a conversation by commenting on the fine, dry April evening, but a steely ice-blue gaze from Sherlock stops him.

The detective leans back, trying to shake his off thoughts on Mary´s picture and the enigmatic caption Moran provided. The short sentence read “the bishop is waiting.” Sherlock only hopes the colonel hasn´t abducted her, too. Hope is all he is left with at the present. It threatens to replace his usual knowledge and control.

* * *

When he finally gets out of the cab and runs up to the street corner in question, panting, he stops dead when he actually sees the men who are waiting for him. A familiar black car is parking inconspicuously at the kerb, which resembles one of Mycroft´s limousines. But the man who waits at one of the side doors is definitely not one of Mycroft´s. Sherlock knows him only too well, and at the sight of his tormentor his heart starts to beat a frantic rhythm, and his skin is covered in cold sweat.

It takes him all his willpower to walk on and approach the stranger in competent, elegant strides. The brute is leaning casually on the opened door, exposing his teeth in a triumphant grin. Sherlock steps nearer and stops, keeping his distance and using his most arrogant gaze to stare his opponent down.

But the man only continues to smile and raises a hand to check his watch. “Just in time, Sleeping Beauty,” he says, and advances on the detective. “You came voluntarily, just as the colonel expected,” he hisses into Sherlock´s ear, his breath unpleasantly tickling the back of Sherlock´s neck. His gaze travels over the detective´s features, and his hand ghosts over his captive´s bandaged shoulder.

“What a shame,” he continues and smiles evilly. “I prefer a decent struggle, you know,” he remarks casually, and digs his fingers roughly into the stab wound over Sherlock´s clavicle.

Black dots invade Sherlock´s visions. He feels the urge to shout and lash out at the man while pain sears through his arm, making him dizzy, but he stays quiet. Even when the criminal grabs his wrist and elbow, twisting his left arm onto his back to shove him onto the back seat, he manages to appear unaffected. He can taste blood though, trickling from where he has clamped his molars down on the inside of his cheek.

When he is pushed down hard, though, his mouth opens in an involuntary pained gasp, and his guard spots the tiny red traces on his lips.

He raises a finger and wipes away the blood, lingering a little longer and piercing Sherlock´s eyes with his gaze. “There, there. Not as insensitive as you wanted to let me think you are,” he says. “We could have so much fun together, you know.” He runs his free hand down Sherlock´s torso, and the detective freezes, the thrumming of his heartbeat blocking out the humming of the car and the noise of the traffic.

_Snow crystals, unbearably tender. Cold, shivering. Punches to his ribs, to his chest. Mocking voices, laughter, the heat of the rush – his pulse is racing, and his legs start to tremble. Rough hands on his body. He needs to escape, he needs to get out of this surreal situation…_

“Oh, no need to be afraid,” the man´s ironic voice startles Sherlock out of his panic. His face is only inches away from the detective´s. “Just checking for weapons,” the appalling individual breathes, and pats Sherlock´s thigh. “Nothing on you, hum? There´s a good boy.” He pushes his unoccupied hand into Sherlock´s curls, when the driver impatiently turns his head to face him.

“What do you think you´re doing, Ronald?” he asks angrily. “The colonel is waiting.”

Ronald lowers his hand, sliding it down Sherlock´s cheek. “Isn´t he beautiful?” he replies with a sneer. “A shame really, to have to hand him over so soon.”

Sherlock, who has sat very stiffly, observing his opponent, doesn´t dare say anything. It´s not that he couldn´t think of a snide remark, he just can´t allow himself to talk for fear his voice will shake and betray his trepidation. He can´t let his abductors know how scared he is, and he can´t afford to aggrieve them, either. He desperately hopes they won´t notice his rapid breathing and the fine sheen of sweat on his forehead. And he hopes he will be able to collect his fury at Ronald´s joy in toying with him. It would be a relief to wipe his tormentor´s smug smile from his face with a well-delivered deduction. Or, even better, with a gun.

But even if he were able to talk without betraying his fear, he would most certainly endanger Mycroft more by any imprudent action. Moran would definitely make them both pay dearly for any disturbance of his plans, be it only a snide remark to one of the colonel´s minions.

Ronald startles him out of his musings by lifting his hands. Sherlock flinches, but straightens again when he notices that his captor is holding a strip of black cloth. The man´s unbearable smirk draws nearer as he leans in closer to his victim.

“You know, I would have loved to see you with a needle,” he remarks and runs a finger over Sherlock´s arm. “But the boss figured it would take you too long to recover from a sedative. Would ruin his timing, I suppose. Anyway, we can´t let you see where we are going.”

He raises the cloth and blindfolds the detective with rough hands. Sherlock half expects the man to touch him again, and hesitates to sink back onto the backrest. The humming of the engine and the soft clicking noise of the indicator are the only sounds accompanying their journey, and Sherlock relaxes marginally.

After a while, the sound of the car changes as it leaves the small side street and speeds up. Sherlock busies his racing mind with deductions on where they might be going. Somehow the fact that he can´t see but hear Ronald breathe heavily beside him tortures him more than any infliction of violence would. He wonders whether John was right in stating that he is not fit for meeting Moran. Should John tell him his opinion on the matter right now, he would probably agree. He probably never was.

As with Moriarty, the gravity of the situation hits him flat in the stomach, turning his world to grey and his willpower into a blade of titanium steel. But the desperation he felt when he stood on the roof of St. Bart´s was nothing in comparison to the panic which threatens to shatter his determination now.

He is at a great disadvantage, frightened and caring, doubting himself.

* * *

Mary gets out of her cab at Paddington Station and grabs her duffle. She doesn´t really want to leave London when she knows Mycroft is in danger and both John and Sherlock are frantically investigating his abduction, but she has a meeting to attend. John was very firm that she´d better leave the city as long as they don´t know who is behind the kidnapping. So she packed her bag and left with a heavy heart.

She is prepared for the crowd and for a tedious wait at one of the ticket machines, but she is not prepared for the familiar black car waiting for her and a man in a suit waving at her to come nearer.

Curious, she walks up to the black Mercedes. She has had her fair share of drives in Mycroft´s government cars, and she knows when she is summoned for a discreet talk. So she advances towards the man, frowning.

“Is Mr. Holmes back?” she asks, but the man just stares at her. She notices the tattoos on his hands, and wonders when, if ever, Mycroft´s men were allowed to wear any.

“Listen, this had better be urgent. I need to catch a train.”

Her counterpart smiles at her, clearly amused. “I am very sorry,” he says in a mocking voice. “But you are expected.”

Just when she attempts to ask why, a cotton ball is pressed into her face, and she inhales the heavy vapour of chloroform.

Her last lucid thought is how stupid she has been, and how much safer she was at Baker Street.


	35. The Flame

"Goodbye, John." Sherlock´s softly spoken words keep buzzing through John´s aggravated mind. Were he not still dizzy from the impact of Sherlock´s right hook on his chin, he would be pacing the floor, livid with rage. As things stand, he can only perch on the sofa´s edge, his knees bouncing with nervous energy, his hands hurting from clutching the ice pack he presses against his bruised jaw in a death grip. How dare his traitor friend punch him and leave him behind, helpless. How dare Sherlock run into his enemy´s arms deliberately on his own.

John clenches his teeth and shakes his head in disbelief. He can´t imagine what Sherlock´s plans concerning Moran are. All the doctor knows is that the colonel wants the detective dead, and that he has set an infallible trap for him. John loathes that he has been left behind. And he fears for the Holmes brother´s lives and Mary´s safety.

A friendly hand lingers on John´s shoulder, and the doctor looks up into Robson´s grey eyes. While he lowers his hand, Irene Adler´s words surface in his memory that John avoided punching Sherlock in the eye or nose due to kindness. No. She used the word "love". Sherlock definitely didn´t aim to hurt the doctor when he hit him, either. John wonders whether Sherlock had wanted to treat him kindly. He wonders, too, whether his friend´s last words were a plea for John´s forgiveness. But all John can think of as an answer is that the spark of trust which has kindled into a tiny flame ever since he and Sherlock started talking to each other again has been doused out. Sherlock is right, John thinks bitterly, sentiment certainly doesn´t contribute well to solving a difficult situation. And in this moment, John is as thoroughly immersed in rage and sorrow as he was shortly after Sherlock jumped from the roof.

John frowns. He feels the grip of Robson´s fingers tighten. The agent runs a hand through his sparse hair, his gaze concerned. "We´ve activated the tracker," he says, and John notices that he is clutching his mobile tightly in his left hand.

"They´ve driven him out of town, to the south," the elder man elaborates. His eyes bore into John´s, his grave expression softening to a tight but friendly smile. "He´s relying on our skills, you know," Robson adds. "Mullen, Cleaver and I have been a team for years. Sherlock used to first curse and later acknowledge the fact that of all his brother´s men only I seemed to possess the skill to find him wherever he was hiding. He called us for a reason, you know. We´ll probably get to him earlier than Moran will."

John nods curtly to show his approval of Robson´s dry humour. But he can´t refrain from correcting the agent´s statement. "There´s only one problem there," he says drily. "It´s not Sherlock who´s hiding from us, it´s Moran."

Robson nods. "Of course." He heaves a sigh and gestures at his men who are hunching over their various devices, their faces lit by computer screens, brows and foreheads wrinkled in concentration. "I´d say we´ve had our share of finding people who don´t want to be found," he remarks, absent-mindedly.

John opens his mouth to answer – he hasn´t intended to affront Robson – but the agent stalls him with another squeeze of his shoulder.

"Just wanted to assure you that he knew exactly what he was getting himself into. The tracker can´t be deactivated easily. In case Moran uses an interfering signal, we can still get close enough to monitor Sherlock´s movements and whereabouts through a body heat sensor the system uses. I quite doubt the web has already been able to nick the most recent military technology."

John flicks a tight smile back at his counterpart. "I doubt that too", he agrees. "What troubles me is the colonel´s tight schedule. And the fact that he might nurture the idea he needs to make absolutely sure he can´t be traced." The doctor presses his hands together, the ice pack biting cold into his fingertips despite the towel it is wrapped in, reminding him that he is alive. Again, he thinks back to how numb he felt without Sherlock´s presence in his life. He dreads losing him again. And he dreads losing Mary. Even Mycroft.

Robson nods knowingly. He seems to be nearly as skilled in thought-reading as the Holmes brothers are. "I know. We need to be swift," he acknowledges. "There is too much at stake. There´s already a team out there, following the lead. They should be due at our target in –," he looks at his watch, "about thirty minutes." He stops speaking when he notices John´s face, which displays a mix of anger, dread, and determination.

"I should be going with them. I should be out there," the former army doctor presses though clenched teeth, and jumps from his seat, shaking Robson´s hand off. "Jesus, why didn´t you tell me…" He stops suddenly, swaying slightly, a frown creasing his brow, and Robson cocks an eyebrow and takes a step back.

"He texted me," the agent says. "He made me promise I would not allow you to follow him."

Swearing under his breath and disregarding the pain in his stomach and his feeling of nausea, John starts pacing.

"For fuck´s sake," he exclaims, his hand raking through his short hair. "Why didn´t you tell me? Can´t I for once decide for myself? Or has Sherlock lost it so far that he thinks he can pilot the whole damn world and all of its inhabitants?" he shouts.

Robson and the other Secret Service men watch his outburst silently, not daring to approach him with words or gestures. They are all familiar with the feeling of helplessness a long period of useless waiting and searching for clues can cause. And they all know what it feels like to send a colleague, a companion, into danger.

John´s steady gait provides the background for their soft conversation for the next fifteen minutes. When Robson finally tears his gaze from Sherlock´s notebook and straightens, the voices die slowly down. Sensing the tension in the room, John stops. He stares at the agent who seems to stand even more erect with every word he is listening to.

"Got it," he says at last, cutting the connection. Then he turns to face John.

"Our men arrived at the spot. They have decided not to go in yet."

Again, anger burns in John´s chest. He is barely able to contain it, as he wishes so desperately for Sherlock to escape unscathed, to help. He knows he should be glad that the secret service men prefer to wait for the right moment to interfere. But all he can think of is the repeating plea of "Don´t be dead. Please" over and over in his mind.

He groans. Simply sitting back and hoping for the best has never been his favourite occupation. But obviously, his hands are tied.

* * *

Mary recalls the cobble stone streets of Oxford, the perfect round of the Radcliffe´s camera cupola, the gargoyles staring down at her with eyes of marble. She tries to divert her thoughts from the man who looks out of the window of the vast, abandoned room with images from a place she loves. They help her to ignore his cold, detached blue eyes and his unnerving, springy steps. She has reached the banks of the Isis in her imaginary walk when he finally turns, steps over to her and pushes her towards the middle of the room, towards a large desk.

Mary is ordered to stand beside the heavy piece of furniture which indicates that this place must have been used as an office not very long ago. Her abductor´s smile is one of false encouragement as he lets go of her arm and looks her into the eyes.

"Our honoured guest has arrived," he says. "I hope for a very entertaining conversation. He´s a genius, after all." He leaves her and sits down languidly on the table´s edge, humming under his breath.

Mary still wonders who he might be expecting when she hears footsteps approaching, and watches three men enter the room. She gasps when she realises that one of them is Sherlock, pale, but apparently unhurt. Although blindfolded, he enters with the same elegant strides she knows so well, guarded by two men in dark suits who resemble Mycroft´s specialists.

They stop, and Mary winces as the thug on Sherlock´s right runs his fingers over the detective´s throat, cheek and temple before he tugs at the bandage and loosens it. He blows a kiss at the detective, smirking, but Sherlock appears unfazed. Only the tiniest of tremors in his hands gives away his agitation, and Mary notices that he takes an inconspicuous step forward. His sea-blue eyes meet Mary´s before he regards his surroundings and, at last, the man at the desk.

"You wanted me. Here I am," Sherlock snarls. "I didn´t expect you would turn our talk into a social event, though."

If Mary had any doubts left on who her opponent is, they are erased by the colonel´s hoarse laughter.

"I heard you are something of a misanthropist," Moran says. "I, for my part, like company. The more the merrier, as the saying goes."

"An annoyingly stupid philosophy if one wants to avoid attention," Sherlock retorts. "I would have assumed you have confidential business to conduct."

Moran leans back a bit more, his arms crossed on his chest, his gaze settled on Sherlock´s. "Oh, but it is confidential. That´s the reason why I kept it all in the family, so to speak," he replies, and gestures towards Mary. "Your therapist here is in a sexual relationship with your blogger. And your brother is my honoured guest. All we need to accomplish to perfect our meeting is to make everyone happy." He pauses and fixes the detective with a measuring stare. "I wonder whether you are capable of making anyone happy. You certainly failed the last time we met. Here´s your second chance."

Sherlock stares back, his eyes dark with anger. "Let me quote another example of popular lore," he says. "It´s commonly assumed that most of us don´t get a second chance."

Moran smiles. "Consider yourself lucky, then," he replies. "You know, I was never one for games. Jim was, though. When I thought this," he gestures towards the room, "over, I realised I could celebrate the occasion. With a game."

He pauses, gauging the detective´s reaction, but Sherlock just stares at him, his eyes flicking very quickly to Mary, asking whether she is all right. She answers with a tiny nod, and he averts his gaze quickly enough for the colonel not to notice.

Mary notices the tremor in her patient´s hand returning, and Moran sees it, too. His smile widens in satisfaction, and he nods.

"See, I could release all of you, call it a day." He pushes himself off the table´s edge and covers the short distance to approach Sherlock. "Or I could make this more interesting for everybody. As you like so much to be in control, I´ll let you choose. You know, only two out of you three will be allowed to survive. Who, is up to you."

He draws nearer, intruding on the taller man´s personal space. "You either shoot her," he gestures at Mary dismissively. "She is not important anyway, after all. Or you agree to let your annoying sibling disappear for good. Or…"

Sherlock takes a deep, exasperated breath and rolls his eyes. "Oh, please. Or I´ll be shot or slip happily into oblivion with the help of the special mix you carry in your front pocket."

Moran nods and retrieves a filled syringe. "Spot-on, as always," he says. "I´d prefer not to make my hands dirty, you know. And I was actually relying on your sense of courtesy."

Sherlock stares at the tiny object in the colonel´s hand, obviously transfixed. When he raises his gaze again, his voice is firm, although his hands are still shaking.

"Why suicide?" he asks, and Mary detects a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice.

Moran slaps the palm of his hand with the needle and stares out into the dark outside. When he looks back at Sherlock, his eyes are cold with suppressed fury. "Let´s say your faked death was a failure. For Jim. For the whole organisation. I am not willing to accept that Jim has failed in his most crucial task."

"Closure, then," Sherlock replies, his tone even, and Moran nods.

The detective turns slowly to point at Mary. "What about her?" he demands. "Why should I trust you to let her go unscathed?"

"Because I´m a man of honour," Moran answers with a smirk. "She will be allowed to leave, be assured. Sadly, I can´t promise you she will be safe and sound, though. Surely you remember how Ronald gets carried away whenever he meets a true beauty."

The detective´s eyes flicker to Moran´s watchdog in question, and Mary sees the faint tremor in his hands intensifying.

"Do I?" he asks in a cold voice. "Nothing too impressive, surely?"

Moran smirks, his eyes meeting those of his minion, who smirks back. "Depends," he replies shortly. "I bet you don't remember too much of it - the drugs didn´t really facilitate your outstanding sense of perception."

Mary watches Sherlock´s pallor losing some of its already sparse colour, and gasps. If what Moran is implying is only partly true, Sherlock must have been even more traumatised during his imprisonment than he consciously remembers. Suddenly she senses where her patient´s discontentment and panic attacks might stem from.

Sherlock seems to ponder Moran´s words, but he lets them pass, obviously disregarding them as irrelevant for the current situation. Still, there is a strain in his voice when he speaks again.

"There´s only one option left, then," he says. "Release Dr. Morstan first, and I will do as you ask. But I will take her and my brother´s safety as your price."

The colonel returns to the table, clapping his hands. "Oh, good," he says. "We might be getting somewhere."

Mary looks at Sherlock who deliberately avoids looking at her. She can´t allow the detective to sacrifice himself. There must be a way out of this surreal situation.

Her gaze falls on Moran´s revolver, and in the same second an idea forms in her mind.


	36. Burning

* * *

_The unrelenting Atlantic winds are ruffling his impeccably kempt hair, threatening to rip his billowing coat off him as he climbs uphill, past shrubs of heather and wild roses. He leans into the breeze, feeling the pull of the current hampering every single step he takes. Summer is clearly over, the dark clouds coming in from the sea announcing the end of its short reign over this barren strip of the Brittany coast._

_Not for the first time he wonders why his brother prefers exposing himself to the elements to staying inside, at a warm fire. He, for his part, has always been grateful for the amenities of modern life, never nurturing the desire to test his resilience against nature's whims. But Sherlock is different, never abating of curiosity, continually searching for knowledge, constantly giving in to the pull of his dark side._

_Mycroft spots his brother's dark curls between the low branches, and the small cloud of smoke curling up towards the darkened sky. He sighs. Clearly, testing the human body's reaction to the effects of nicotine has become an issue for his sibling in the months the brothers have been separated. Mycroft is rational enough to know that nothing he could have done would have stopped Sherlock from trying out smoking. Nevertheless, guilt hits him as he watches his brother´s lone features, and he steps quickly up to his side._

_Sherlock huddles between two rocks, sheltered from the wind. He is wrapped in an old fisherman's jumper, his hands buried in the sleeves, his eyes fixed on the churning waters below._

_The teenager shakes his head slightly, but doesn't turn to look up. "So soon, Mycroft?" he asks. Mycroft nods and squats down beside him._

_"All holidays end," he replies softly. Sherlock turns to face him, blowing the last whiff of smoke from his finished cigarette into his face. Mycroft's eyes narrow in anger, but he refrains from commenting. He doesn't feel inclined to spoil his brother's last hours at their grandparents' country home with starting an argument on trivialities. But Sherlock, as he expected, doesn't seem to share this notion._

_"They generally end after six weeks," he replies scathingly. "Why does he want me back home earlier?" The unspoken question of "Why would he want me at all?" lingers between them. Since Mycroft is at a loss for an answer, he opts for the most obvious explanation._

_"You know quite well you can't refrain from attending his anniversary," he says._

_Sherlock throws the cigarette butt away with force, frowning as he watches it trundling down towards the waves. "He just wants to show off, to boast on how he trained his undutiful son, the freak," he spits bitterly._

_Mycroft draws a bit nearer, not daring to touch his the younger, not quite willing to reveal his caring. But Sherlock, as usual, sees right through him and sends him a scrutinising gaze._

_"You know that isn't quite true," Mycroft says. "He sent you to boarding school to give you the best education…"  
_   
_"Oh, stop it, Mycroft," Sherlock cuts in with venom. "He doesn't want to see me, that's why he sent me away. He only needs me as a display of his virility, as evidence of his ability to pass on his genius predispositions." He jumps up, arms crossed on his chest, shivering, and looks down on his sibling._

_"Before I leave for gaol, can I go see the hives?" he asks, suddenly meek, and Mycroft nods. He doesn't think it reasonable to prolong what will most certainly be a dismal goodbye for his brother, but there's no need to hurry, either._

_Sherlock nods his thanks and starts to descend the cliff, long legs skilfully aiming for the more accessible spots of the narrow path, way too fast to allow Mycroft to follow._

_Mycroft watches his brother's lanky form disappear between the rocks and bushes. Once again, the task of containing Sherlock's exceptional level of energy to the limited amount their father does tolerate has fallen on him. He is sick and tired of being the privileged one, of the progressing estrangement between himself and Sherlock._

* * *

Mycroft wakes with a start. He knows he has been dreaming of the past, but all he can remember is a feeling of deep regret concerning Sherlock. This is not new to him, as regret has always been part of his constant caring for his brother. He should not be too rattled by his sentiment. Nevertheless, his heart is pounding, and he needs several deep breaths to calm down.

A scraping sound outside startles him. When the door creaks open, he has already regained his composure and managed to push himself up straighter.

A man steps inside, slowly and carefully. He is short, trained and muscular, his face covered by a mask. His fingers are callused from handling different firearms and his hair is cropped short. He carefully pushes the door shut with his left while he trains the gun he is holding in his right on his captive's head.

Interesting, Mycroft thinks, the Walther PPK is commonly used by the German police. He fleetingly wonders whether his opponent is German or whether he acquired the weapon from the web's sources. If he is right in his assumptions on Moran, the choice of weapon he is going to be shot with can't be coincidence. Most probably, the colonel intends to divert suspicion of Mycroft's murder from himself, perhaps to the secret service of a foreign country.

The killer gestures towards the mobile Mycroft has left abandoned on the floor after his last conversation with Moran, and the secret government's thoughts come to a halt. Slowly and carefully, he picks up the device, his gaze never leaving the criminal's eyes.

The man nods and fingers with his headset, mumbling several unintelligible sentences. A second later, the ringtone goes off.

"Dear Mr. Holmes," Mycroft hears the colonel greet him, full of false cheer. "Fancy a pleasant conversation with your brother?"

"Our conversations are seldom pleasant," he answers with the same note of boredom he uses whenever he wants to convey to his counterparts that they are stealing his time.

Moran chuckles. "Try not to be too hostile, then," he answers. "You might regret it."

The line goes silent. Mycroft's whole being is flooded with sudden dread. Only a second ago he had clung desperately to the assumption that all Moran intended was to unsettle him by mentioning Sherlock. As soon as he hears his brother's breathing, his hopes are irrevocably shattered. He has been used as bait – and Sherlock has been caught in Moran's net.

"You told me repeatedly the interest of the individual is less important than the interest of community," Sherlock starts without preamble. "I must acknowledge you were right, after all."

Mycroft shakes his head in disbelief. "You are not going to…" he starts, but Sherlock cuts in.

"Listen to me, brother dear," he presses, urgently. "Remember what Robson told you after he found my hideaway all these years ago? That he would never have been able to get to me if I hadn't made myself visible? I've made myself visible to Moran because it's me he wanted, not you."

Despite his control, Mycroft feels the grip of his fingers on the phone tightening, and his headache intensifying. Does his brother really believe Moran wouldn't use his advantage on them and kill them both?

"He'll let me live if you die," he states. Sherlock takes another trembling breath, which is answer enough. "How do I know he´ll keep his word?" Mycroft continues, and Sherlock laughs bitterly.

"There is no guarantee, I guess," he says. "Except perhaps that killing you would cause him too much trouble."

"Indeed." Mycroft taps lightly against the mobile, deep in thought. "My latest company is proof enough of his intentions."

Sherlock inhales again, obviously battling to stay composed. "Your guard has orders to shoot you in case I don't comply," he states bitterly. "I can't allow this to happen." He hesitates, and Mycroft frowns slightly, a sudden thought nagging at the back of his mind.

"And as much as I loathe to admit it, you were right," Sherlock continues. "No one can hide from his fate. Looks as if I'm about to meet mine."

The elder Holmes brother listens, his frown deepening. Something in Sherlock's choice of words is off, but he can't put a finger on what is. His brother appears to be frightened, but Mycroft can't shake off the impression that Sherlock is trying to send him a message. He doesn't dare to inquire even subtly, so he clears his throat instead. "I take it this is our last goodbye, then," he says, evenly.

"It is, brother dear," Sherlock answers, his voice hoarse with unshed tears. "Please forgive me from finally slipping from your radar. Forgive me for being angry about your… concern."

Suddenly, Mycroft comprehends. Robson. Visibility. Radar. His brother might have dived headlong into danger, but not without a contingency plan. A rather feeble one in any case, but Mycroft prays it will work. He tries to exclude any sign of relief from his voice and aims for a convincing note of grief as he bids his brother his goodbye.

His rage is growing disproportionally as a rustle indicates that the mobile is snatched from Sherlock's hands in mid-sentence.

"How sweet of you to forgive him," Moran says. "Very touching."

"As you certainly overheard everything, you can call your watchdog back and let me go," Mycroft replies, but Moran simply clicks his tongue.

"As much as your brother was right that his… sacrifice might save me a lot of trouble, I can't release you yet. See, I need some incentive for your sibling. He would certainly not go through all of this if he knew you were safe and sound at Whitehall, don't you think? And you would certainly want to know how he died, wouldn't you?"

Mycroft's vision blurs as the rage burning in his chest becomes an icy, blueish flame of fury. Were Moran here, in this desolate hut, he would most certainly throw himself at his enemy with the full intention to kill him. He curses his helplessness under his breath, and hears Moran laugh.

"Going all protective again, Big Brother?" he says. "I hope the knowledge you weren't able to protect your sibling is not going to hamper your outstanding ability of detachment. It would be a shame were your career to end because of sentiment, wouldn't it?"

Seething with rage, his eyes closed, Mycroft clings to the mobile. The last thing he hears is Moran order his men to advance on Sherlock.


	37. In Inferno

Mary watches Sherlock as he talks to his brother. She knows he is stalling, playing for time. Probably he expects reinforcements. But who would know that they are here, in this abandoned building in south London? Moran could shoot them both in a second, and they might possibly not be found for days.

She shudders and closes her eyes briefly. When she opens them again, it is just in time to see Moran snatch the mobile from the detective´s hand. With a smirk, the criminal calls his minions, who step forward to grab Sherlock´s arms and restrain him.

The detective looks into his enemy´s eyes, his own, blue ones clouded with unshed tears. "Call your men back," he pleads. "If I am to do this, let me do it alone. In privacy."

Mary, who has witnessed Sherlock come apart on two occasions, knows instantly that those tears are not genuine. If he is so intent on buying them time, she can certainly contribute.

Moran sends the detective an estimating glance, and finally nods his approval. "Very well," he says. "Adair, Childers, wait outside. Come back only when I call you." When the men have left, he tosses Sherlock a leather strap.

Sherlock catches it, and Moran trains his weapon on him, silently watching as the detective starts to roll up his sleeve.

Mary collects her courage and steps forward. "Not very clever, I would say," she remarks lightly, and Moran flicks an irritated glance towards her.

"Stay back," he warns. "We´ll talk later."

Mary doesn´t stir. "No. We´ll talk now," she insists firmly. "Are you really sure he isn´t planning to play one of his tricks on you? He fooled you and all of your men into thinking he died at St. Bart´s, don´t you remember? I can think of a much safer method to get rid of him."

For a second, confusion shows on the colonel´s face, but he composes himself quickly. "You are not seriously telling me you want your most prominent patient dead?" he asks.

Mary regards Sherlock with a deliberate stare of hatred and draws nearer. "I certainly can´t say I´m grateful that you abducted me," she says with a triumphant smile. "But I´m grateful for the chance you gave me." She steps forward to spit at Sherlock´s feet. "This piece of shit has been harassing my boyfriend ever since he has been back from the dead. He´s been pining for him continuously. He even faked panic attacks to divert John´s attention from me." She turns to face the colonel again. "I´d be more than happy to get rid of this bragging bastard," she concludes, her voice icy.

Moran, who is still aiming his gun at Sherlock, regards her for a long time. "Ah. I understand," he finally says. "Jealousy is a very strong motive for murder."

"And your ticket for not being connected to his death," Mary replies. "It´s as easy as that: he attacked me under the influence of your drug, and I shot him in self-defense. Leaves us all happy, I suppose."

Moran smirks. "You are very clever," he says. "But being clever alone doesn´t help with shooting someone. Neither does being emotional." He steps nearer, takes hold of Mary´s right hand and curls her fingers on the weapon´s handle. "Show me you´re serious," he whispers into her ear, leading her to stand in front of Sherlock. "Shoot him – but don´t kill him yet."

Sherlock, who has been watching Mary closely, confusion and disbelief written in his features, stares at them both. Mary stares back, with her best imitation of a dark gaze, wishing she could assure him that everything will be all right.

When she raises the gun to take aim at him, his eyes narrow in disgust, and he swallows, obviously stunned into silence by her betrayal. She releases the safety, and he blinks and, surprisingly, gives the tiniest of nods.

Mary fights hard to keep the relief from showing on her face. Sherlock has seen right through her performance, and he wants her to know that he will play along, that he trusts her. It must cost him an inhumane amount of courage to present himself so vulnerably, so utterly helpless, and she feels the urge to simply drop the gun. Instead, she clutches the handle even tighter, her forefinger tightening on the trigger.

Time seems to stretch indefinitely as she tries to remember what her father has taught her, as she attempts to steady her hands. If she aimed at Sherlock´s thigh, she might stand a chance to inflict as little damage as possible. If she aims correctly, she might be able to only graze him. This way, Moran will be convinced, and Sherlock might still be able to fight.

Uncertainties. Shaking hands. Fear. Hell, she only needs to pull the trigger, and complete her task.

"If you attempt to graze his leg, you should take better aim." Moran´s words reach her from far away, and she feels his fingers tightening on her hand, his forefinger on hers. "It´s easy, actually," he says, and pulls.

Mary stares in horror as Sherlock collapses, groaning. The colonel´s mouth is close to her ear again, his breath unpleasingly tickling her neck. "For someone who really hates Sherlock Holmes you chose a far too safe spot to shoot at," he whispers and wrings the gun from her hand. He walks over and prods the detective, who has curled up on the floor, with his foot. Sherlock hisses as the pain intensifies with the impact, clutching at his leg, his face contorting.

Moran returns to Mary in three quick steps and grabs her, hard, pointing his gun at her temple. "Right. Time to end this charade," he hisses. "I am pondering to let you accompany our favourite psychopath on his last journey, you know."

"You won´t." Sherlock´s voice is strained with pain, but firm. He has pushed himself into a sitting position, trying to get back to his feet. Mary detects a flame of anguish in his eyes. She knows he is dreading for her more than for himself. He has John on his mind and how the doctor would react if she died from Moran´s hand. Nevertheless, she shakes her head ever so slightly to let him know she knows, that he shouldn´t care about her.

Sherlock´s eyes are settling on her with this unreadable, intense blue gaze of his he wears whenever he is confronted with a seemingly insolvable problem. Slowly, he winds the leather strap around his upper arm, fixing his opponent´s gaze. "There´s no need to threaten Dr. Morstan," he snarls. "This is between you and me."

Moran chuckles and fondles Mary roughly, releasing his hold of her so that she is propelled towards the ground. She is clumsily getting back on her feet, when a cheery ringtone fills the air.

A guitar accompanied by drums, followed by a high-pitched, male voice. Disco sound, circa the seventies.

Startled, Moran averts his gaze from Sherlock for a second, and all hell breaks loose.

Sherlock lurches at the colonel, disregarding his injury, using the leather strap as a whip, aiming at the criminal´s face. But even his long arms do not stretch far enough to reach the sniper, who sidesteps him easily and punches the detective in the stomach, hard enough to send him reeling back towards the floor. As Sherlock staggers, Mary tackles Moran´s knees. But although the former officer is hit by the full weight of a human body, he is strong enough to keep his balance. Sherlock desperately lurches again, trying to kick at Moran´s hand which is still holding the gun, just as Mary grabs hold of Moran´s arm. Moran easily breaks her grip and aims at her, but Sherlock grabs him by the neck, strangling him. "Leave her", he snarls, but Moran only bites out a rasping laugh.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mary sees the colonel´s men rush back into the room. She wonders why there are more than two of them. In the same instant, several shots roar and reality blurs.

The first thing she notices is that she must have tripped and fallen. Sherlock´s surprisingly heavy and very limp arm is pinning her down. She sees Moran lying face down on the floor, bleeding heavily at his back, his breath coming in shallow gasps. A groan startles her into action.

"Sherlock," she gasps. "Sherlock," and scrambles to her feet, gingerly hefting the detective´s arm from her body. Sherlock is lying next to Moran, face pale, blood trickling from his side, moaning. Her medical training kicks in, and she rips at his clothing to examine the damage. He´s been shot in the lower torso, possibly somewhere near the lung, she estimates. There´s already an awful lot of blood collecting on his clothes and the floor, and she retrieves her cardigan and presses down on the wound, hard.

Sherlock´s eyes flutter open, and he stares at her, blinking. "Didn´t plan on leaving again," he pants between shallow breaths.

Mary smiles. "Then don´t," she says, still pressing down on the wound. "Breathe. Stay with me for John´s sake."

The apparition of a human face startles her, but she ignores it. It takes her several valuable seconds to comprehend that it is real. It´s a man, equipped with combat gear. He´s telling her it is over, that the paramedics should be arriving shortly, but she listens only half while continuing her work on her patient.

Sherlock stirs under her hands, groaning. "Don´t give up," she begs him, tears in her eyes. "The cavalry is on its way."

But he shakes his head. The white, searing pain in his chest is swallowing him. His vision is blurred, his hearing muffled, and he is starting to shake. He feels detached, drifting through the icy realms of space. The smell of blood hits his nostrils, and he knows it is his. Not a very reassuring prospect, he thinks dimly, using what energy he has left on the analysis of his condition. A cough wracks him, erasing any doubt that it might be less than grave. The smell of blood is accompanied by the taste of blood on his lips, confirming his observations.

Mary´s eyes widen in fear, and he wants so desperately to tell her that it is all right, that he expected all this long ago, but he can´t even breathe properly.

His eyes close, but her voice anchors him to the tiny shred of reality he is still able to perceive, and he pries them open again, using his last resources of strength.

"Take care of John," he whispers, nearly inaudibly. "Promise."

Mary stares at him, indefinite grief in her eyes, but she nods. "I will," she confirms.

He relaxes, his eyes closing again as he feels hands on his body, inserting needles, hefting him onto a stretcher. Eventually, his transport betrays his mind to drift away, slowly and irresistibly.


	38. Smoked Out

Never before in his life has Mycroft Holmes felt any desire to escape reality. He is far too clinical in his thinking to believe that life would treat him differently if he tried to change his perception of it. And he is far too level-headed to see the point in vainly conjuring up images of a brighter world.

Never has he displayed much faith in the power of wishful thinking, either. But when he finds himself exposed to hearing his brother´s enemy barking his orders to restrain Sherlock, Mycroft wishes fervently for whoever orchestrates this universe to take pity and bend time and space. Simultaneously, his fury is rising, for he is painfully aware that his futile plea stems solely from his absolute incapacity to step in.

All that is left to him is to listen. And listen he does. He catches that Moran´s orders are followed by Sherlock´s tearful protest, feeling sick to his bones at the thought that his brother is about to die from yet another overdose. Mary Morstan´s hatred surprises him, and he goes frantic when the soft thud of an automatic weapon follows it.

Despite the throbbing in his head and leg, Mycroft jumps up at the sound, the subsequent silence ringing in his ears. His guard, instantly alerted, draws nearer and flips the safety on his gun. He waves the weapon at Mycroft impatiently, ordering him to sit down again. As much as the secret British government feels no inclination to comply, he is experienced enough to not move a muscle. Although shaking with suppressed rage, he slowly lifts his hands in a gesture of surrender.

More shots. Steps. Shouts. An all too familiar voice crying out in agony.

By now, Mycroft´s guard has retrieved his own mobile, desperately fumbling for a contact, waiting for the call to be answered. Even with the mask on his face, the unease and confusion he radiates is clearly detectable. With another impatient twitch of his weapon, he indicates for Mycroft to hand his own device over.

The man can certainly get what he wants, Mycroft thinks. When the smartphone connects with the brute´s nose, he silently congratulates himself that he has lost nothing of his aiming accuracy. He certainly hasn´t lost his fast reaction time either, as his torso connects with his opponent´s just a fraction of a second later, sending them both and the gun crashing to the ground.

Ironically, caring certainly contributes to reviving Mycroft´s long-neglected fighting skills.

* * *

John has given up on asking any of the Secret Service men when their field team is likely to interfere. He has given up on pacing, too, and has resorted to downing yet another mug of tea, nearly scorching his throat with the hot liquid. He can´t care less than he does at the moment for any bodily discomfort, numb as he is with worry for Sherlock and Mary. John recalls the cold flame of madness and cruelty in Moran´s eyes when the colonel shot him in Milverton´s kitchen. The man is prepared to do anything to get to Sherlock, in a much more direct way than Moriarty ever was. And John would do anything to protect his friend and his woman – if he only could.

Just as he is stepping from the kitchen into the living room for what appears to be the hundred time, he sees Robson answering his mobile, tensing. The agent listens intently, his brow creasing. John can´t hear what he is saying. His eyes are fixed on the deep lines of worry on Robson´s usually surprisingly gentle features. The conversation is short, and when the agent cuts the line and lowers the mobile, his eyes lock with John´s in an expression of deep concern.

"Mullen, Cleaver, Callaghan, we are done here," he orders. "Callaghan, you stay. I and Dr. Watson will leave for St. George´s. You two," he gestures at his colleagues, "go back to headquarters."

He turns to face John again. "Seems our men have arrived just in time. There has been a shooting. They report one casualty, four men are down. There was a woman present, too." Robson notices the horror in John´s eyes. "She´s unhurt. They didn´t say how badly off the others are, I´m afraid."

John´s heart clenches at Robson´s words. One casualty. Four men down. He has certainly seen enough violence for a lifetime in Afghanistan, enough to be able to conjure up images of the most grievous injuries a human body can sustain. Enough to fire his imagination with images of Sherlock ripped apart by bullets, bleeding to death. His heart beats faster at the thought, and his fists clench.

With an effort, he relaxes them and shakes his unhelpful musings off. With forced calm, he straightens to meet Robson´s concerned eyes. "They´ll certainly need a trauma unit, and quickly," he replies, switching into army doctor mode.

Robson stares back, pity and a spark of fear in his eyes. "I wish I could tell you the lad is all right," he says. "He never had the talent to stay out of trouble. But he usually escaped only with scratches."

John sends the agent a wry smile. "I noticed," he says. "Let´s hope he hasn´t lost his skill."

* * *

A tall man is stumbling out of the woods, limping towards a traditional Oxfordshire cottage. He is wet from the spring rain, his hair is muddled, and his eyes bear an expression of steely determination. His tailored suit, the attire of a city dweller, hangs torn from his long limbs, and his handmade Italian shoes are certainly not made for treading muddy woodland paths.

Mycroft reaches the cottage´s door, fervently hoping he will be answered. The urgency he feels on going back to London is intensifying with his assumption that the owner of the small house will provide him with a functioning phone, perhaps even a car.

The old lady, who opens tentatively, has not seen a more peculiar visitor for years. She opens her door only a crack, scrutinises Mycroft´s pallid features, his bloodied arm, and his ruined clothes. Obviously, she doesn´t consider it wise to answer the knock of a stranger who appears to have escaped a fight recently, and who looks as if he were ready to fight back any time.

Mycroft straightens and sends her his peculiar half-smile, with a courteous nod. He states his wishes in the most refined pronunciation, worthy of a member of the House of Lords, and her face lights up as she eventually opens the door to let him in.

* * *

As much as John is committed to his profession, he hates hospitals. His aversion to the sterile surroundings, the bustle of nurse, and the ubiquitous smell of disinfectants had been one of his motivations to join the forces. John has spent a fair amount of time in hospital´s waiting rooms in his life to come to loathe every minute of it. This time it isn´t much different. Even though he and Robson arrived immediately after the casualties of the shooting were admitted, he can´t shake off the feeling that he has come too late. He´s reduced to waiting and worrying, utterly helpless again.

John wonders silently when he will be approached by a doctor to be told that there was nothing left to do for his best friend. Sherlock was admitted five hours ago, and is still in surgery. The prognosis was grave, but the part of John that refuses to give up on a patient isn´t quite willing to relent yet. He refuses to give in to the thought that what has been lost and handed back to him so miraculously will be pulled away from him again so soon.

Mary is at his side, still rattled by recent events. She is clasping his hand, and John is grateful that he doesn´t have to face the unbearable uncertainty about Sherlock´s condition on his own. She is still with him, thanks to Sherlock´s stubbornness and courage. John wipes a tear from his eye as he realises that he is immensely grateful for his friend´s recklessness. He wonders whether he will ever get the chance to thank his friend, who is still in imminent danger of dying.

Mary senses John´s unease and squeezes his hand. "He will be all right," she says. "He is a stubborn git."

John nods and returns to his private rerun of the past two months, their reunion, and the elation and rage he felt on Sherlock´s return still present in his mind. He recalls his abduction by Mycroft, how he refused to listen to his friend´s explanation, the chaotic press conference and their burglary of Milverton´s office. His rambling thoughts are interrupted when one of the doctors appears, haggard and worn, but smiling ever so slightly.

"Dr. John Watson?" he asks, and John nods, tense. "Mr. Holmes has been transferred to recovery. He´s been shot, suffering hemorrhagic shock. The bullet has penetrated the diaphragm and fractured two ribs, resulting in pneumothorax. We were able to retrieve the projectile, as well as the bone fragments which have settled in his lung. It took us some time to deal with the lacerations, though. We´ve inserted a chest tube to get the pressure off his lung, and set him to a nasogastric tube, since he developed dyspnea. He should be over the worst now, but we´ll know for certain when his pulse and respiration do normalise."

"Of course," John answers, not quite daring to draw a relieved breath. "Thank you. When can I see him?"

The doctor glances at John, frowning. "Come back tomorrow morning. It´s not very likely he´ll wake up earlier. In fact, it won´t be a good sign if he does," he says.

John nods. As much as he would like to rush to Sherlock´s bedside, he knows that his colleague is right - there´s not much to do except wait, again.

"Tomorrow morning then," he replies, already pulling on his jacket and smiling invitingly at Mary to leave. 

* * *

Out in the void of space where the earth is revolving around the sun - or is it the sun revolving around the earth, what does it matter anyway – out in space there is only dark and cold left. A cold which kills every living organism and leaves only matter.

Space is not supposed to consist of sound, but the planets and stars perform an immortal symphony in tune with their movements, conducting the heartbeat of the universe. A steady, hollow beating underlines the buzz of eternity. It brings a shower of red, fiery comets into motion. They hit him in waves, welling and receding in tune with the eternal, ancient melody. The sound is soothing, but the object´s fiery stings assault his floating soul with every advance. The sensation they cause is enough to alert him from his dreaming.

The formulae of the periodic table float through his inner vision. Why are they relevant? Ah, yes, order. One hundred and eighteen elements. Of these, ninety-eight occur naturally and eighty-four are primordial. Atomic numbers. Metals and gases, chalcogens and halogens, light and heavy. Lead. Or gold. One of the least reactive elements. Buried at the earth´s core ever since the planet´s youth. Brilliance, streaming through a window, lighting the hair of a fellow human, tousled by the wind.

Movement. Isn´t life movement? If he moved, if he opened his eyes, he would find himself among the living again, able to gather data, to observe, to deduce. His eyes won´t open, though. And he is cold, so deathly cold. Immobile, drifting through a sea of red stings, tumbling into darkness.

When he returns, he is still drifting through an onslaught of pain. This time, the sensation is cushioned by a familiar feeling of detachment. Chemistry again. It´s eerily familiar, the grasp of the demanding companion of his former years . All is a blur, his mind fantastically dimmed but still able to work in high gear. Every other impulse but to drift is shut out. He doesn´t need to use any of his senses, disregarding the smells and voices which invade them. The stings are not bothering him anymore - he is fine as he is.

But the peace is shattered by one sting, more persistent and present than the others. It sits in the crook of his elbow. He wills himself to emerge from his dreams to examine the peculiar sensation, and is terrified. They slipped a needle into his arm. He thrashes out wildly, ripping the vile item out with his frantic movements. Firm hands settle on him, voices call out in alarm. Danger. Mortal danger. His thrashing gets even more violent as he tries to escape his tormentors.

When they hold him down, a cry escapes his dry throat, muffled by the device in his windpipe. He gags and twitches, and ignores the red flames which burn him, threatening to pull him into oblivion. The voices grow urgent and loud, and he flinches with every single touch. When he feels a strong hand on his arm and a new needle sliding under his skin, he despairs, pleading silently for them to stop. Tears are streaming his face.

* * *

Time stops again, and he emerges to the cushioning sensation of earlier, bathed in tiredness. His hands twitch with the memory of his aggressors, and he lunges out feebly, to fight to his last breath. But a familiar grasp tightens on his hand.

Fingers, nearly as long and slender as his. Soft fingertips, brushing his pulse lightly, calming. Not the callused fingers of a soldier, a crack shot. Hands he has known for a lifetime, which held him before, with firm determination, steadying him during withdrawal, preventing him from advancing on his father.

He senses he is safe, but to be sure he needs to see, to analyse. But the tiredness intensifies, and he is lulled into sleep by a familiar voice, reciting poetry he has known from his childhood, from a time of peace and contentment. He remembers the khan´s pleasure-dome at the banks of the river Alph.

He remembers his own palace with its measureless chambers. He enters it and finally sinks into a sound and dreamless sleep.


	39. Starting Over

A golden ray of early summer sunlight meets the stained glass ornaments of a vast Victorian window. It transforms into red, blue, and green while it travels down to caress a pile of files. Bound in brown paper and covered by a thin layer of dust, they rest on the warm wooden surface of an oaken desk. A crystal tumbler, filled with a liquid the colour of amber, keeps them company. Patiently, it waits to be picked up again.

It doesn´t need to wait long. Slender fingers curl around the glass, tilting it to swirl the liquid carefully. Watchful eyes regard the sparks of light igniting in the glass facets, and a skeptical brow climbs up to a well-kept hairline.

The glass returns to the tabletop, and the man who had lifted it up seconds ago steeples his elegant hands, the tips of his index fingers touching his lips. For the past six weeks, he has been worrying about many issues, none of them concerning the documents on his desk, but all of them of the utmost importance to him on a personal level. He knows that now that he has regained his position he will certainly have less time to focus on said issues as intently as before. This doesn´t seem a very reassuring thought, except perhaps for the case of his brother. As long as a certain quite remarkable former Army doctor is keeping an eye on the younger man´s recovery, Mycroft can rest assured that all will be well.

Mycroft sighs, squints into the sunlight, and stretches his arms. He has been immersed in his musings for nearly an hour, and feels exhausted now. The past weeks have been a continuous blur of tension and uncertainty, of meetings and investigations, accompanied by legwork, and he longs for quiet.

He reaches out to pick up one of the files, when the door opens. A young woman steps in, elegantly dressed in a costume and pumps, her brown hair shimmering auburn in the bright sunlight. She smiles as she approaches the desk, the pleasure of seeing him back in office sparkling in her eyes.

"Anthea," he greets her, gesturing for her to sit. "How have you been?"

"It´s been 'Olivia' for too long, Sir," she answers, her smile deepening and revealing a small dimple on her chin.

He sits back. "Indeed. Now that the affair with Moran seems to be over we can get back to the more pressing matters of diplomacy and state security." He knows she has picked up on the hint of irony in his voice when she sends him another smile, amused this time.

"I guess so, Sir," she replies and pauses. "Anyway, the Yard called this morning. Charles Augustus Milverton has been found dead in his manor. It looks like he committed suicide, but on further enquiry the homicide squad found that someone must have broken in through the conservatory. They found fingerprints, too, very likely a woman´s."

Mycroft´s brow creases. With Moran incapacitated after the shooting by a spinal injury, and Milverton dead, Moriarty´s web appears to be pretty demoralised. "Revenge, possibly?" he asks, and Anthea nods.

"The content of one of his filing cabinets was burned, too. It appears to be very likely that one of the victims of his blackmail took matters into her own hands."

"Very well." Mycroft closes his eyes, pressing his fingers together. Assumptions and associations about the web´s next moves are crossing his mind, and it takes an effort to ignore them for the time being and focus his attention back on his reliable PA.

"Your solicitor called, too. Moran has been declared fit enough to attend trial. It has been scheduled for the last week of June. Since your brother will most certainly not yet be in form to attend as crown witness, I considered it sensible to ask for rescheduling."

"Thank you," Mycroft replies warmly. He has missed the specific advantages of his position – in the case of his PA, to be equipped with a member of staff who frequently seems to be able to read his thoughts and predict his wishes.

"I understand that he´ll be transferred to rehab tomorrow, Sir?" Anthea asks, and Mycroft nods.

"On Monday," he corrects her. "He needs physiotherapy, and is still battling with symptoms of depression. The specialists who will see to him are well equipped to deal with PTSD."

"As is Dr. Watson," Anthea remarks, and Mycroft sends her a surprised glance. She falters, as if sensing she might have said too much, but chooses to elaborate when he cocks his head at her, expectantly. "Dr. Watson has been an indispensable source of strength for your brother ever since their first case together," she says firmly. "And your brother has never reacted well to being confined in an… institution. It might not be a very good idea to cut him off from his friend´s support."

Mycroft nods. Anthea has witnessed enough incidents when Sherlock stormed into his office, confronting him about being trailed and handled by his staff, to know how stubborn both Holmes brothers can be. She hasn´t witnesses John Watson´s recent futile attempts at talking to his detective friend, offering his help and encouragement, though. Nor has she observed how Sherlock suffered treatment, recoiling from his friend´s care, withdrawing from any attempt to bring him back to his old, obnoxious self. Mycroft, who has watched his brother deliberately distancing himself from what he obviously considered too much caring, finds he is not in the mood to elaborate.

"Be assured that he will be in the best hands available," he replies in the hope of closing the subject, the phrase ringing hollow even to him. Anthea regards him, frowning, before she straightens, obviously anxious to ask one more question.

Mycroft, who knows from experience that his assistant will bring the subject up later if he chooses to ignore her now, gives a reassuring nod, signalling approval.

"I understand that your brother will be asked for a statement on his earlier abduction," she continues. "He will need to testify against Ronald Adair, one of his tormentors. Do you think he will cope well?" she finishes, letting the unspoken allusion sink in.

"We can only hope it will help him to find closure," Mycroft replies. The glance Anthea sends him in answer is telling him that she knows how worried he still is for his brother´s state of mind, and that she, in turn, is worried for him. He smiles. She should know better than to assume he would let himself be distracted from his work for the government by personal affairs.

Anthea regards his terse features, and nods knowingly. "Pardon me Sir, if I beg to differ," she replies. "You brother has endured a sequence of highly traumatic experiences. It is probably not very wise of you to get back to work so soon and abandon him to the hands of professionals."

Mycroft smiles. "Your concern speaks for you. Be assured that we´ve discussed all probable implications of the trial. Sherlock himself opted for further treatment." He leans back, clasping his hands. "I assured him of my prompt assistance should he encounter any further – indispositions. He dismissed my concern by telling me he wouldn´t need it as long as he didn´t remember his – misadventure, anyway."

Anthea´s lips curve in a faint and friendly smile. She has known her boss long enough to recognise his statement as being highly personal. If she reads it correctly, the most dangerous man in Britain has just indicated he has reached a new understanding with his annoying sibling. And the annoying sibling with him.

Anthea continues smiling when Mycroft reaches out for the upmost file and flips it open.

"Let´s start with Libya, shall we? I do have an appointment to keep," he says, all business again, and she nods.

 

* * *

John is passing through Marylebone Road, on his way home to 221B, when an only too familiar black limousine pulls up beside him. Sighing, he stops and waits for the inevitable. A tinted window slides down, exposing a familiar, posh face which wears a slightly amused expression.

"Would you please get in the car, John?" Mycroft asks, without preamble. John sighs bitterly, not daring to protest. He hasn´t seen too much of the Holmes brothers in the past two weeks, ever since Sherlock started breathing therapy and has been held busy with providing statements to the Yard. And Mycroft seems to elude normal human interaction professionally and on purpose whenever he deems it necessary.

The doctor is not alarmed, for he expects to be whisked away to St. George´s Hospital, but he becomes progressively annoyed when the car stays on the main roads and finally steers onto the motorway. When their driver finally heads out of the city altogether, John explodes.

"What is it this time?" he fumes. "Are you planning on getting me out of the country? This is certainly not the route to your brother´s hospital room."

Mycroft looks at him, a mischievous glint in his eyes. John frowns. This is certainly an expression he has never come to associate with the elder Holmes. Nor has he ever thought it possible that Mycroft would ever radiate cheerful anticipation.

"Please, John", Mycroft replies with a smile. "Could you just once trust that I have good intentions?"

"And what intentions are those supposed to be?" the doctor asks, now really piqued. "Keeping me from my Friday night shift, which, by the way, starts in one hour?"

"Your presence at the surgery is not requested. You are urgently expected somewhere else, I´m afraid," the elder Holmes replies sternly.

"You mean you had my shift changed?" John asks angrily. "Didn´t I tell you a week ago that I would like to get some approximation of a normal life for a change?"

"Yes, you did, Dr. Watson," Mycroft replies pointedly. "But believe me, I wouldn´t have picked you up if it hadn´t been for a very good purpose."

John sits back, still irked. He can´t think of a single reason why Mycroft should start abducting him again. Except for Sherlock. Hold on, he thinks, probably this is about Sherlock, after all. He turns to face the secret British government with his most intimidating stare.

"This is because of your brother, isn´t it?" he snarls. "Believe me, Mycroft, if there´s not a very good explanation for your meddling in my affairs against my explicit wishes, I will never talk to you again."

Mycroft stops him with a wave of his hand and a wink. "John. What a brilliant observation. Of course it´s about my brother. Now, if you could refrain from drawing premature conclusions, and enjoy our ride."

John sinks back into his seat and stares out of the window, arms folded. He wonders why he always ends up obeying the Holmes´s rules.  
  
The glory of the Sussex countryside slowly chases away his dark thoughts, eventually replacing them with an irresistible feeling of joy at the brilliant summer afternoon.  
  


.


	40. Steady Humming

The bright June sun shines from a cloudless sky, caressing one of the more prominent hills of the Sussex coast. Rough grass sways slightly, stirred by the slipstream of a limousine´s tyres. Small pebbles are thrown into the tepid air by the sharp breeze. They rain down again on the green stems, the soft thuds of their impact being drowned out by the engine´s roar. The car appears to have been flown in from an alien planet, from a realm of glass shades and sharp angles, not of wind and clouds.

Its passengers seem to have been randomly selected, to the point that they don't appear to even be able to converse. The shorter, blonde one stares stubbornly out of the window, disregarding his companion, focusing on hedges and stray clouds in an otherwise spotless blue sky. The taller man busies himself with checking and composing emails on his tablet. Every now and again, he sends a small, amused smile towards his inattentive guest. He is rather enjoying himself, he realises.

The car slows to walking pace as it reaches the hill´s ridge, where the road ends. The immaculately clad gentleman diverts his attention from his device to a very annoyed and stubborn former Army doctor.

"We´ve reached your destination, Dr. Watson. Please be so kind as to leave the car," Mycroft states politely.

John gapes back at his abductor, short of shooting back a biting remark. He refrains when he notices the laugh lines around the elder Holmes´s eyes deepen. "He´s actually enjoying this," he thinks, and shakes his head. John still can´t quite fathom why Mycroft would take him to the countryside. The sight of a small, wooden gate and the outline of a traditional Sussex cottage a short distance away don´t seem to provide an adequate answer. At least the secret British government hasn´t planned on abandoning him out in the open, he thinks wryly.

Mycroft suppresses another amused smile as he regards John´s stern gaze and the sullen wrinkling of his forehead. The doctor´s expression actually reminds him of a sulking Sherlock. Probably John has not only picked up on Sherlock´s ability to observe and analyse, but on his temper, too.

"Please, John," Mycroft offers. "Give my regards to our patient. I wouldn´t want to disturb his peace with my presence. A car will be ready to drive the two of you back to London on Sunday evening."

Sherlock? Here? John, who is well informed about the extent of the detective´s injuries and his state of recovery, glares openly at the elder Holmes. Noticing the mocking gleam in Mycroft´s eyes, he fights the impulse to ask several urgent questions. Instead, he only nods curtly at the driver, who has already opened the door for him, and steps out.

By the time he reaches the gate and opens it, the driver has already started the engine, turned the car and pulled away.

John enters the garden with trepidation. The cottage´s whitewashed stone walls are bending towards him, attempting to enwrap him in homeliness and comfort. A narrow path, blindingly bright with white gravel, leads to the back of the building. The song of a violin, plain and sweet, lures John on. He is quickly enraptured by the sheer beauty of the hedges. Lilac, roses and clematis are in full bloom. The oscillating presence of bees, butterflies and multiple small insects do escort him on his way. He inhales the warm early summer air, breathing in the fresh scent of earth and vegetation, savouring the salty taste of the sea. Birds do chirp, and the ceaseless roll of the waves provides a soothing background noise to it all. The violin´s siren song continues, beckoning him to follow its sweet, melancholy tune. It appears to voice the very essence of the place itself.

John swallows. He hasn´t heard Sherlock play so devotedly for far too long. He turns around the corner and stops, holding his breath in fear of disrupting his friend´s concentration.

Sherlock perches on a wicker chair, his eyes closed, his torso swaying slightly in tune with the music. Even though it is evident from his careful movements that he must have chosen an easy, slow piece because he is still not well enough to put himself under greater strain, he looks much more alive than in the past weeks. His skin has lost the sickly grey pallor of illness, but, most importantly, he is radiating energy.

He stops playing when he hears John´s footsteps, resting the bow on the strings, eyes still closed.

"I made myself perfectly clear that it´s not necessary to babysit me for the weekend. I am sure I can cope perfectly well for two days without being mollycoddled by my brother´s minions," he says, his tone more exasperated than malicious. "Whoever you are, go away."

John shifts. "Obviously Mycroft is more worried about getting you constant medical supervision than pampering you," he replies drily.

Sherlock whips around, lowering his instrument. His eyes meet John´s, and the doctor sees them blaze with a mix of delighted surprise and trepidation. "John," the detective breathes, and John is instantly transported back to their reunion at the military hospital three months ago. He remembers how frail his friend was then, hurt, tortured and thrown back into addiction. And he remembers how he was too angry at Sherlock to be able to feel any joy on having him back alive.

He closes the distance between them and takes the chair next to his friend´s. It feels as if he has belonged here all his life, sitting in the shade of a Sussex cottage, looking out towards a magnificent view, over the slope of a hill, the sea glittering like fluid silver in the distance.

"Mycroft certainly has a talent to surprise," John finally breaks the silence.

Sherlock smiles, obviously reminiscing a similar incidence. He chuckles lightly and shakes his head before he gingerly places the violin on the table. "Even to me," he says. "Even after all these years." He looks up, meeting John´s eyes with the hint of a smile in his eyes. "He drove me up here this morning, claiming I needed a distraction before rehab starts. And he stated it was doctor´s orders that I refrain from chasing criminals through London´s streets for the rest of the summer. Or for as long as I deem it sensible." Sherlock pauses. "Seems to have become a habit with him to actually give me a choice," he finishes.

"He has bought you - this?" John asks, waving a hand towards the house and its beautiful garden, and Sherlock flicks him an approving smile.

"Well deduced, doctor," he replies. "I told him not too long ago that I would want to live here, should I live to see the end of my career. He sold part of our family grounds in Oxfordshire to be able to obtain it. Traditional cottages are not easy to come by, nor are they sold at a low price."

"Why would your archenemy have wanted to be so generous?" John asks, astonished that Mycroft should feel obliged to hand Sherlock an unconditional present.

Sherlock, as usual, reads his thoughts. "He obviously felt I deserved a… reward," he says, his left hand fiddling with the end of the bow. "For sacrificing me to Moriarty." He plucks at the bow again. "I nurture the strong suspicion he wanted to apologise for old times, too," Sherlock concludes, softly.

John sits back and frowns at his friend. The two brothers have been astonishingly polite towards each other during Sherlock´s time in hospital, and he was silently relieved when he realised they were actually trying to achieve a new understanding, erasing old resentments and misunderstandings. That Mycroft should have felt obliged to settle his debts to Sherlock much earlier is slightly unnerving, as it indicates how worried the secret British government must have been for his younger sibling during their battle with Moriarty. But John has witnessed signs of Sherlock attempting to apologise in his own silent way towards his brother, and he is glad that they both are battling to overcome old resentments. He leans forward, his hands clasped between his knees. "And this is why he went to your family home the day he…"

"…was abducted, yes," Sherlock finishes John´s sentence. He clenches his fingers nervously and stares at the ground. "It is actually slightly… unsettling that I suspect I would certainly have felt even worse about his disappearance had I known his plans," he ends in a small voice.

"Too much sentiment for our sociopathic Spock, I suppose," John replies lightly, and Sherlock shoots him an exasperated glance.

The doctor answers it with a smile. "It´s a gorgeous place," he says, ignoring his friend´s trepidation. "I would never have thought you might be keen on leaving London, but this here is a beautiful spot to get away from the capital´s bustle."

Sherlock leans back. "It is," he replies, his gaze directed at the sea. "And as you will leave Baker Street sometime in the near future, I´d probably better keep a second place I can call home." John doesn´t miss the hint of sadness in his friend´s tone and is momentarily lost for a reply.

"When is the wedding?" Sherlock asks, startling him out of his musing. John looks up and meets the detective´s sharp blue gaze. "Your ring, John. You didn´t wear it two weeks ago," the detective explains, the sadness in his voice replaced by his usual, familiar impatience.

Sherlock sounds so much like his old, annoying self that John can´t help but laugh with relief. "We haven´t fixed a date yet," he answers. "Mary has had a call from a colleague several days ago. They need a doctor with experience in drug counselling in Sudan for ‚Doctors without Borders' for three months. She told me she wants to go. It seems your encounter with Moran has turned her into an adrenaline junkie, too."

"I sincerely hope not," Sherlock replies evenly, averting John´s eyes. "I am already guilty of having exposed you to danger unnecessarily."

"Is this why you stopped talking to me, because you are feeling guilty?" John asks softly. He remembers their awkward conversations in hospital, when Sherlock seemed only be able to touch issues concerning his treatment, but sternly ignored any of John´s attempts to discuss his hunt for Moran or his experiences abroad. John had finally given up on trying to start a proper conversation, seeing that the issue of Sherlock´s physical health was far more immediate than his psychological condition. But now, Mycroft has provided the doctor with the ideal setting for concluding talk with Sherlock, and he is definitely not going to miss this opportunity.

He watches the tiny signs of anger building up in his friend´s posture, and Sherlock finally whips around to face him, his mask one of suppressed anger, his hands balled into tight fists.

"Don´t you see, John? Even if Mycroft hadn´t planned to hunt Moriarty down using my support, I would have taken Moriarty´s bait because I was convinced that his threat was an intellectual challenge, a game between us two. People died, John. I lied to you, to Lestrade, to Mycroft." He pauses, his fists still clenched. "All I accomplished was to get caught by Moriarty´s heir, to get drugged, before I continued endangering all of you." He heaves a breath, wincing as pain radiates from his ribs. "You once said you wouldn´t believe for a minute that I was a fraud, John," Sherlock continues and looks down. "But that´s what I am. A freak. A failure. Worthless. You were right to doubt our friendship, for it should never have existed. Things would have been so much easier."

Sherlock´s rapid speech trails off, and John reaches out for one of his friend´s wrists, stalling him. "It was hardly your fault that you were drugged," he says softly. "And Moran needed to be stopped." He looks at his friend, deliberately searching his eyes. "There´s more behind your desperation. This is about the… treatment you received from Adair."

Sherlock swallows and tries to free his hand in an attempt to get up. When John doesn´t release his grasp, Sherlock sighs and sags back into the chair, looking up into the azure sky. "Adair was a coward. One hint at my probable medical condition, and he had second thoughts about carrying out his original plan to rape me." The detective turns his head and regards John warily. "No, John. I should never have been so arrogant as to assume it was only my game that Moriarty and his web were playing. I should never…"

John stalls him with a raised hand. It hurts to hear his best, infuriating friend rejecting their friendship, rejecting even himself, his decisions and his old, arrogant self. It dawns on John how painful it must have been for Sherlock to find that he was received coldly, that he would find no easy forgiveness for his faked death. He heaves a breath. "You know, Mycroft expected you to recoil from us all at some point of your therapy. He told me you´ve been there before."

Sherlock, who has moved to the edge of his seat, in an attempt to flee the upcoming conversation, tenses. "This was a long time ago," he says, flat.

"But you remembered the incident when Adair threatened you, despite your enormous effort to erase it from your memory," John says softly. "This is why you feel you deserved being shot. Not because you felt you had failed me and Mary."

Silence. Sherlock swallows, still tense, and clasps the edge of his seat. John feels as if he is dealing with a bird, trapped between the urge to observe and listen, and to spread its wings and fly off to a safe distance. He continues speaking, softly and carefully, so as not to shy Sherlock away.

"You know, Mycroft told me about what he later labeled your first 'danger night', the night when he found you at his doorstep. He is convinced that your drug use escalated afterwards because you were blaming yourself that you had allowed your vigilance to slip. He told me that you´ve displayed a heightened sense of keeping control ever since, but deep down you felt a failure. You ceased to care, hence the overdoses." John looks his friend in the eyes, serious. "He also said you wouldn´t accept help. It got only better when you discovered you could actually do some good with your deduction skills. And Mary seems to have been the first person who really understood your situation."

Sherlock looks down, his hands clasped between his knees, his voice full of contempt as he answers: "That night – it just wasn´t supposed to happen. I should have seen it coming. Shooting up at my dealer´s flat after telling him I couldn´t pay was outright foolish."

"You were an addict," John replies. "Even your great mind can´t work properly when it´s flooded with drugs. It wasn´t your fault, Sherlock."

Sherlock shakes his head, but he doesn´t reply, and John finds himself at a loss on how to proceed. He has always admired his friend for his shrewdness and strength. Never has he given the thought that Sherlock´s façade of strength might be more brittle than it appears serious consideration. Now that his anger at his friend´s fakes death has dissipated, he suddenly sees the details. And he feels ashamed that his fury has overshadowed his usual talent for compassion, that he has treated Sherlock unjustly because he felt offended. He is ashamed that he has deprived him of his support in a time when he seriously needed it.

He´s not been much of a friend lately, John thinks, and swallows. "When I refused to listen to you, I contributed to affirming your belief that you had failed, again," he says, and Sherlock looks up, studying him wearily.

"All that you wanted to hear from me was that you had done the right thing," John continues. "But I was so hurt and angry – I simply ignored your desperation. All I did was to tell you I felt betrayed, that I felt you failed me. By your actions. Even by being forced into drugs. I was blinded by my grief, Sherlock, and I wallowed in it." John´s voice falters. "If anyone is to blame, it´s me. I failed you as a friend. I am sorry."

Confusion and disbelief is creeping into Sherlock´s expression, and he opens the mouth for a reply. But John shakes his head.

"No. Hear me out," he says, and a small smile tugs at the detective´s lips at the sound of John´s stern army voice.

"What you did was… very good. You were willing to sacrifice yourself for our safety – mine, Mary´s, Mycroft´s. But I nearly lost you, again." John´s gaze travels to a far distance, to the sea, and Sherlock knows that his friend is trying to hide his bitterness. When John turns his head to look at him, he is graced with a tiny, welcoming smile, the first true John-smile he has seen since he left to meet Moriarty on the roof.

"There never was a guarantee it would work," he replies in a small voice, humbled by John´s obvious pain. "Forgive me."

"No, there wasn´t," John replies. "But you were heedless and brave enough not to relent. And in the end, you were right, as always." The doctor smiles and straightens his back, his hands clasped between his knees, pursing his lips and assessing his friend. "You know, when I punched Mycroft…"

"That left the hug for me." Sherlock replies, smiling ever so slightly.

John nods, still serious, then turns to face Sherlock. He remembers all the pain, he remembers his hurt and anger, but all he sees is his brilliant, insufferable friend who could have died for real this time. Shot, because he wanted to save someone he loves, shot because he wanted to make sure Moran would no longer be a danger. John smiles, then laughs, and finally leans over to Sherlock and embraces him in a bear hug.

Sherlock clasps back, hesitatingly first, then tightly, not ever wanting to let go, and John feels tears fall on his neck. Finally, they part, gasping, eyes locked, shining with joy and tears, and on Sherlock´s face displays that special smile he has always only reserved for John.

"Want to see the hives?" he asks, still smiling, and John nods as Sherlock takes his hand, dragging him up from his chair like a boy would drag his brother to his most loved toy.

* * *

The soothing humming of multiple living beings fills the air around them as soon as they arrive at the hives, a short distance away from the house. John looks at the honeycombs Sherlock retrieves by lifting one of the frames, explaining that in Nepal honey is being harvested with the help of ropes and bare hands. He is hardly listening, lost in the sight of Sherlock´s blue eyes glistening with joy, and he undoubtedly knows that his friend has finally found the one thing in his life that brings him peace.

He watches his friend let the frame slide back. "Who would have thought that you could be a beekeeper?" he asks, and suddenly he remembers his dreams of the bee-man. For a moment, he sees this image again as several of the insects do cross between his and Sherlock´s faces. For a moment, he feels like he´s in a dream, wrapped in peacefulness, safe.

"I would," Sherlock answers, breaking the spell, and they both smile at each other.

The small, friendly insects surround them, returning from the fields, laden with pollen. They stay a long time, watching them, and Sherlock explains to John why they dance on returning to their hive. It´s a code. A matter of the living world. A steady rhythm, a humming symphony to the theme of belonging, of home.

A fresh sea breeze enwraps the two friends, rustling Sherlock´s dark curls and John´s short spikes, caressing them gently.

They are both silent, breathing in the warm early summer air. Only the steady humming of the bees persists.


End file.
